From My Solitude
by Nade-Naberrie
Summary: UPDATE February 23rd! Erik hears little Christine Daaé for the first time, and his life is changed forever. The classic tale of the Phantom of the Opera, retold through Erik's point of view. Based on ALW's musical and motion picture.
1. Little Lotte's Debut

_A/N: Hey, thanks for clicking! This is going to be a rather lengthy story- I'm going to have a chapter for each song on the soundtrack, and then some. This chapter is what you could call a prologue... my take on how Erik might have encountered Christine. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: If I had the creative genius to think up Erik, Christine, Raoul, or any of the other characters, not only would I be a bagillionare, but I would have no need to spend hours of my life writing fanfiction. LOL... No, unfortunately, they are not mine, nor are their film counterparts (Gerry and Patrick... yummm -giggles wildly-) Alrighty, enough legal talk. On to the story :)_

_**Little Lotte's Debut**_

To be perfectly honest, she held no interest for me at first.

I was returning to my usual seat in Box Five to leave a small trifle of my appreciation for the generous Madame Giry, who had once again seen to it that my seat was reserved and salary paid on time. As I slipped through the dank, dimly lit passage behind the chapel walls, I first heard her tiny voice, trembling softly as she whispered what I presumed to be a prayer of some sort. I snorted softly under my breath, continuing on my way; my faith in a benevolent, compassionate God had been shattered with the first unearned blow to my flesh nearly twenty years earlier. If such a God existed, why would he curse me so? What had I done to deserve such an ill fate?

The blood crept up into my cheeks at the thought, and my hand moved instinctively to the smooth ivory mask which covered the right half of my face. Once I was convinced that it was still properly in place (which I realize now was a bit superfluous, as no one could see it anyway), I continued my trek through the shadows and hidden passages of the Opera Populaire, with no further incidents to speak of. Madame Giry was out and about somewhere, so I took the opportunity to leave her a crimson fan lined with black lace, which the Countess DeBleuc had left in Box Eight two nights earlier. On the way back to my dwelling, I nearly bowled over that pompous blob of a man, Piangi, but so lost was he in a drunken stupor that he paid me no heed, and I slipped into the nearest corridor unnoticed.

But when I once again reached the passage behind the chapel walls, I heard a soft, breathy voice that stopped me in my tracks.

_You once told me _

_of an Angel of Music_

_You once promised_

_That once in heaven_

_You'd send me an angel_

_A guide and a guardian_

_Now Father, in heaven_

_I ask you..._

_I beg you..._

_Where is he?_

_Where is my angel?_

Intrigued by the beautiful melody that poured from this child, I climbed through a trap door in the ceiling and peered down at her through a crack in the mossy stone.

My breath caught in my chest at the sight of her.

She was only a small girl, about eight or nine years old. Chestnut curls cascaded down her back, and her large, tear-filled eyes of the same color were trained on the flickering candle above her father's picture. Her complexion was milky and pale, dappled with red blotches from the tears that tumbled down her slender cheeks. The room was dimly lit; only that one candle provided light to the dark cellar, but my eyes were well adjusted to the dark. She was alone.

_Where is he?_

_Where is my angel?_

Her mournful song faded into silence, and a stream of tears trickled down her rosy cheek.

"Christine? Christine?" another child called from the next room. "Are you down here?"

The child looked up, startled. She quickly wiped the tears from her eyes and cleared her throat. "Down here, Meg," she replied.

A moment later, the ashen face of little Meg Giry peered around the crumbling stone archway. Her wide brown eyes darted feverishly around the room before she dared take a step into it. She held out her petite hand to her young friend urgently. "Come, Christine. You shouldn't be down here alone," Meg whispered, her eyes still roaming the room restlessly.

The little brunette, _Christine_, I told myself, didn't move. Her large brown eyes returned to the picture of her father, and she sighed. "No more talk of ghosts, Meg, really. There's no such thing."

I had to stifle a laugh. No such thing, indeed.

"But there _is_!" Meg squawked, then clasped her hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide as she glanced around the room once more in terror. She huddled close to Christine, goosebumps popping up along her skinny arms. "Piangi swears he saw him just a moment ago, and Monsieur Buquet..."

I cursed under my breath. That damn fool Piangi had seen me after all. No matter- Christine confirmed my hopes a moment later as she shook her curly head.

"Oh, Meg," she sighed, smiling warmly at her friend. "Monsieur Piangi is so drunk he can't see straight; he was probably hallucinating. And Monsieur Buquet only tells you those stories because he knows you'll believe them."

"But- but-"

Christine placed her index finger over her friend's mouth. "I'll be up in a moment, Meg," she assured her. "I promise." Her eyes suddenly glazed over with that familiar sadness as she returned her gaze to her father's picture.

Meg hesitated, scanned the room once more, then darted out of the room without further complaint. "Hurry!" she called over her shoulder.

Once alone again, or so she believed, little Christine folded her hands and began to pray once more for the angel that her father had promised her... the Angel of Music.

I watched her vigil silently for another moment or two until the pattering of footsteps on stone jolted me back to the present. Madame Giry herself appeared through the stone archway another moment later, a cross frown plastered on her otherwise comely face.

"Christine, I sent Meg down for you not five minutes ago!" she sighed. She held out her hand and helped the child to her feet, then pointed meaningfully at the stairs from whence she came. "Practice started five minutes ago, Mademoiselle Daaé; I'd suggest you hurry."

With that, Christine gave a quick curtsy, apologized fervently, and scampered up the stairs toward the main auditorium. Madame Giry lingered in the chapel a moment longer, then suddenly looked directly at me, taking me by surprise. She looked away a moment later with a sharp sigh, and blew out the sole candle, leaving me in complete darkness once more.

I listened until her distinctive footsteps no longer echoed off of the stone walls, then slipped silently back through the trap door and down through numerous other tunnels and corridors, working in the darkness by memory and touch, while the small, hauntingly beautiful voice of little Christine Daaé flooded my mind and soul.


	2. Introduction to an Angel

_A/N: Thank you and huggles to those of you who were gracious enough to review! I do apologize for the brevity of this chapter; I promise, the next will be much, much longer. I couldn't decide whether to tack this on to the last one or let it stand alone, and finally went for the latter. Again, feedback is dearly treasured, if you would be so kind. :)_

_**Introduction to an Angel**_

I soon found out from various occurences that sweet little Christine trotted down to the peaceful solitude of the chapel every night during her free hour before evening rehearsal to pray and sing and call upon her father to send her the mysterious Angel of Music. And each night I waited for her with bated breath, watching her go about her somber routine with eyes wide at the potential stored within that breathtaking child. She soon became my inspiration and obsession; she awoke music within me, and for days on end I would sit in front of my organ, composing some of the most emotionally wrenching pieces of my career. I did not eat, nor sleep, and paused only at that designated hour nightly when I would creep up to the ceiling of the little chapel to watch her "performance."

It was one week after the night that I fondly referred to as her "debut" that the idea struck me.

It was horribly risky. If she were ever to discover...

But how would she? She was struck by grief; that much was clear. The poor child desperately clung to the last remnants of her father and a promise that could never be granted.

That was, except by me.

Yes, it was terribly risky. But I was willing to risk anything to soothe this brilliant young artist, this child who ached as I ached, and who possessed a gift that, if properly guided, would prove to be extremely fruitful indeed.

And so, exactly seven nights after my little Christine's debut, I waited just outside the trap door, as always, trembling uncontrollably in anticipation. She appeared right on schedule, crossed herself, and dropped to her knees, her hands folded reverently in front of her. As she struck the match to light her candle, she began to sing the hymn that was now etched into my memory:

_You once told me _

_of an Angel of Music_

_You once promised_

_That once in heaven_

_You'd send me an angel_

_A guide and a guardian_

_Now Father, in heaven_

_I ask you..._

_I beg you..._

_Where is he?_

_Where is my angel?_

The last note had barely left her lips when I opened my own to respond:

_Beautiful child,_

_Lost in darkness,_

_Such loss and despair you have known,_

_Don't fear, little child;_

_I will show you_

_You are not alone!_

I waited breathlessly for her to respond. Her rich brown eyes had gone wide, first in terror, then in relief. Tears of joy streamed down her pale cheeks, and she trembled almost as fervently as I. A smile, radiant and genuine and beautiful, lit up her delicate features as I finished.

_Angel, I hear you_

_Speak, I listen_

_Stay by my side_

_Guide me!_

A matching grin split my own face at her elation. Elation based on a lie, yes... but that didn't matter to me. The look on her pretty little face was enough to dissolve any doubts I had about continuing. And certainly I couldn't abandon the idea now; we'd passed the point of no return. Henceforward, I was her Angel of Music, her guide and guardian, her teacher, and beloved friend.


	3. Think of Me

_A/N: See? Much longer. :) (Refinished! Sorry, guys; this chappie had a lot of errors in the dialogue, but it's all fixed now, I hope. If I missed something, please let me know!)_

_Disclaimer: Yes, yes, we all know I don't own anything having to do with PoTO except this story._

She saw me, I think. It seemed that Madame Giry's cold, piercing gaze followed me everywhere I went within this Opera House, but she never breathed a word of it to anyone except when presenting my letters to the appropriate recipients. Despite her respectful silence, my inability to hide from her made me inexplicably nervous. I found refuge in shadow, solace in the thought that I could simply disappear whenever the need arose. For this reason, I tried in vain to meld into the darkest corners of the overhanging scenery above the stage as the letter fluttered to her feet. She did not look up- it seemed that she sensed my uneasiness- but nodded as she lifted it delicately, eyeing the crimson seal. She turned the envelope over and eyed the scribbled red text with narrowed eyes, then turned promptly on her heel and strode confidently over to the new managers.

"La Carlotta will be back," Andre assured himself as Madame Giry approached him from behind. I stifled a snort of laughter; I would not soon forget the look on that Italian pig's face as the scenery came crashing down on top of her. Nor would I forget the smile that her squawking had brought to Christine's face. Now there was nothing standing in her way. It was time for her to present her exceptional talent to all of Paris.

"You think so, Monsieurs?" Giry asked, a well-plucked eyebrow cocked slightly in amusement. She tilted her chin, putting on an air of jaded aggravation as she held the envelope to Andre. "I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost."

Without even reading the contents, she knew by the address what I wished to tell these naive businessmen, and did so unflinchingly, despite the shrill chatter and squealing of the chorus girls at the sight of the familiar skeletal seal.

"The Opera Ghost!" the girls twittered, their young faces lifting in a combination of delight and fear. My eyes snapped automatically to Christine, who was chewing her lower lip pensively. I nodded to myself; she was preparing. I had told her of my plans the night before, warning her that La Carlotta would soon become "ill," leaving the leading role in _Hannibal_ wide open for her to claim. We had rehearsed the song from Act Three into the late hours of the night. She was ready.

"Oh, God in Heaven, you're all obsessed!" Firmin chimed in, glancing in disgust at the chipper young chorus girls.

Madame Giry waved her hand nonchalantly. "He merely welcomes you to his Opera House, and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use, and reminds you that his salary is still due."

I nearly choked on a laugh as the managers' faces went pale, their eyes bulging in their sockets. "His _salary_!" Firmin sputtered.

"Monsieur Lefevre used to give him twenty thousand francs a month." Giry shrugged.

"_Twenty thousand francs_?" The managers were beside themselves, and this time I could not stifle a sinister chuckle.

"Perhaps you can afford more, with the vicomte as your patrone." I adored the woman more by the moment.

"Madame, I had hoped to have made that announcement public tonight, when the vicomte was to join us for the gala! But _obviously_, we shall now have to cancel, as it appears we have lost our star!" Andre objected, ripping my unopened note into shreds as the chorus girls and crew once again burst into noisy chatter about this new scrap of information. I merely rolled my eyes; I knew very little about the boy, but suspected that he was as moronic and hotheaded as the new managers. If so, this would not be a pleasant year for any of them...

Firmin broke out in a cold sweat, placing a trembling hand on his partner's shoulder. "A full house, Andre! We shall have to refund a _full house_!"

Andre glanced around desperately at the crowd of actors which had gathered around to hear the unsettling conversation. "Su-surely there must be an… an _understudy_!"

The maestro, Reyer, was beside himself; his face grew more and more purple by the moment, and a vein in his neck began to bulge. "There is no understudy for La Carlotta!" he crowed.

Right on cue, Madame Giry spoke up. "Christine Daaé could sing it, sir." I could have kissed her.

"What, a chorus girl?" Firmin snorted, unimpressed. "Don't be silly." I nearly drew my sword and cut another scene on top of _him_, but Giry spoke up for me.

"She's been taking lessons from a great teacher."

All eyes turned to Christine, who waited patiently for a decision to be made. She held her chin high over a gracefully arched neck, a faint smile covering up the anxiety that only a trained eye could perceive.

"Really? From who?" Andre demanded.

Christine hesitated. "I do not know his name, Monsieur." It was true. She always referred to me as "Angel," and certainly she couldn't tell this doubtful moron a story like that.

Just in time, Madame Giry saved the day once again, moving to stand behind my pupil and place a hand on her shoulder. "Let her sing for you, Monsieur," she insisted. "She has been well taught." I relaxed the hand that clutched my sword as both managers exchanged glances and shrugged in defeat.

"Alright then," Andre agreed, waving Christine forward. "Come on, then. Don't be shy." Christine glanced hesitantly at Madame Giry, who offered her a terse nod. With a steady, calming breath, my brilliant student stepped forward to take her rightful place center-stage, staring calmly down at the maestro.

"From the beginning of the aria then, Mademoiselle," Reyer instructed, lifting his mustached face to exchange nods with Christine. He sat delicately on the piano bench, his fingers producing the familiar opening chords by memory. I leaned forward a bit, my foot tapping the rhythm of the song habitually on the stone floor, my fingers twitching instinctively at the sound of piano music.

"Sing as you did last night, my angel," I breathed, "and everything will be fine." I almost thought I saw her relax a bit with this whispered encouragement.

Firmin passed a hand over his face, his eyebrows raised skeptically. "Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves," he muttered.

Andre shrugged the comment off, his greedy eyes fixed on Christine. "Well, she's very pretty…" I glared venomously at him for a moment, but tucked the comment away for brooding at a later time. Now it was _Christine_'s moment to shine, after all these years, and I would not and could not interrupt it.

The incessant roar from backstage gradually dulled to hushed whispers and then silence as Christine finally opened her mouth to sing.

_Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye._

_Remember me, once in awhile,_

_Please promise me you'll try!_

_When you find that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free,_

_If you ever find a moment, _

_Spare a thought for me!_

She was perfect, better than even I had heard her perform before. She radiated elegance and passion; her eyes shone with joy as music filled her soul. My own eyes flooded with tears of ecstasy and relief in the rafters above her; she had done it.

And the rest, as they say, was history.


	4. Angel of Music

_A/N: Y'all are getting spoiled; four updates in five days? Any other author would cower at the thought. (Alright, okay, I admit it... I've already written the first seven chapters, and I'm just biding my time with posting them. Nifty, eh?LOL.) This chapter's a bit on the short side, but hey, it's also the shortest track on the soundtrack, so..._

_Disclaimer: No... sadly, none of 'em are mine. Obviously. ;)_

She waited patiently for me, her hands folded in her lap as she knelt before the picture of her father. I smiled at the sight of her; my pretty little Christine had blossomed into a beautiful young woman seemingly overnight. It seemed that just yesterday I had first discovered her alone and shivering in the underground chapel, but in harsh reality, ten sweet years had passed since that fateful night, and now my intelligent, talented young pupil was the emerging star of the Opera Populaire.

My heart had swelled with pride during her performance (though I was most displeased with that irksome vicomte, who had stolen my seat during her debut at the Opera). Her voice had enchanted the pleasantly surprised audience; the sweet melody had never before been sung with such grace... the tune still echoed in my head, as it would for the rest of my life:

_Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me_

_Once in awhile_

_Please promise me you'll try_

What a superfluous request it had been! How could anyone forget that angelic voice? Indeed, now all of Paris buzzed excitedly with a new name: Christine Daaé was the next prima donna, they exclaimed excitedly. Already I had counted four invitations on her desk to sing at private ceremonies, with seals of those as elite as the Duke de Montclaire and the Countess Malina DuPont. Word around the Opera house was that Christine would soon replace La Carlotta as lead soprano; it was about time that those imbosels got rid of that horrid excuse for an Italian opera singer! La Carlotta did not sing; she screeched. Buquet was next on my list to go; he and I kept bumping into one another in chance encounters, and his stories grew more grotesque and erotic by the day. He had worked the youngest ballerinas into quite a fit; now they traveled in clusters, glancing as feverishly over their shoulders as Meg Giry had done as a child.

I shook my head to rid myself of the thought, and turned my focus from the horrified expressions on the little ballerinas' faces to the patient, expectant one on that of my brilliant Christine. I couldn't keep a smile from my face upon looking at her; she had done very well indeed.

_Brava, brava, bravisima..._ I sang. She grinned, a blush creeping up into her lovely cheeks, and lowered her eyes humbly. She opened her mouth to speak, but another voice, higher-pitched and less elegant, rang out in its stead.

"Christine? Christine?"

_Christine... _I echoed, the name dripping with a fond, loving admiration. Her grin broadened, but she turned her attention to the other's voice.

I stifled an exasperated sigh as Meg Giry stepped lightly into the room, grinning ear to ear. She dropped to her knees beside her friend, no longer afraid of the dark or of the mysterious Opera Ghost that supposedly inhabited it. Meg, too, had grown into a pretty young lady- though, of course, not nearly as pretty as Christine. I supposed that, had I the time to train her as well, she would have rivaled her voice.

But I was much too preoccupied with Christine's career at the moment to worry about such things.

I listened as my young pupil delved into the story of her father's death and final promise, and slowly, silently, climbed down from the ceiling, closing the trap door quietly behind me. So she was finally going to tell Meg of her mysterious tutor...

The thought brought a satisfied smirk to my face. She was not ashamed of me... no, not at all. She adored me, adored her teacher, her Angel of Music. I heard her declare it for the entire opera to hear as she belted the familiar tune,

_Angel of Music,_

_Guide and Guardian,_

_Grant to me your glory!_

_Angel of Music,_

_Hide no longer,_

_Secret and strange angel!_

I hesitated, leaning up pensively against the mossy, damp stone wall. Perhaps, I mused, it was time to finally grant her wish, and let her look upon her Angel for the first time.

My hand crept, unbidden, to the ivory mask once again, as tears of bitter remorse stung the backs of my eyes. I blinked them away angrily, flung my cloak out behind me, and strode briskly down to my house on the lake. Once there, I tore the crimson velvet curtain away from the mirror by my organ, and stared for a long time at my reflection.

Well... at least one half of my face was tolerable. I would make sure that it would be the only half she saw of it. I could not bear the thought of those beautiful brown eyes going wide in horror at the sight of this abhorrent, revolting, hideous deformity ... and besides, there was no such thing as an ugly angel.

Satisfied with my plan and suddenly restless with anticipation, I began to stack and organize the papers that cluttered my workspace, and tinker with the controls to the candles that protruded vertically from the lake. There was so much to do, and so little time... for the first time in my life, I would have company that night.


	5. The Mirror

_A/N: You ask, I deliver. :) Another speedy update... perhaps in return you would be so kind as to leave me a little itsy bitsy review? By the way, thank you again so much to those of you who commented... _

_Disclaimer: Wait... No, there is no disclaimer. I AM Gaston Leroux. (Only not...)_

I paced the narrow, cramped hallway behind her dressing room mirror, my hands clasped tightly at the small of my back. Tiny streams of sweat trickled down my face and back; the mask seemed unusually stifling that night, capturing and retaining the moisture of my mangled flesh. My breath came at rapid intervals, and for the life of me I could not slow it.

Any moment now, she would burst through that door, followed by the ecstatic cries of the elite. The party would begin outside, but my brilliant student knew the rules...

What seemed an eternity later, the door handle jiggled, and my elegant, radiant Christine entered just as I had expected. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of all the flowers, but fixated on the single red rose that lay on her vanity, bound with my signature black ribbon. Madame Giry watched from the door with one eyebrow arched in an unreadable expression.

"You did very well, my dear. He is pleased with you," she announced as Christine fingered the rose. My breath caught in my throat, and I pressed myself against the mirror, longing to go to her without further delay. Giry closed the door behind her- yet again, I could have sworn she looked directly at me with a condescending glare, as if she knew what I was planning. I cared not, for nothing and no one mattered but Christine...

I cleared my throat quietly, preparing to open my mouth to sing when that damned vicomte opened the door. Christine didn't notice at first; her eyes were glued to my rose. I was not blind nor stupid; I knew why he had come. My chest swelled in defiance- let him try and woo her! Her soul belonged to me...

"Little Lotte let her mind wander," the boy's sickeningly charming voice rang out, startling Christine from her reverie. "Little Lotte thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes?'"

I growled in the back of my throat- an inhuman sound, so possessive and bitterly jealous that I surprised even myself. With a flick of my cloak, I turned sharply on my heel and raced down the corridor, through six trap doors, down another winding passage, and two flights of stairs. I ended breathlessly at the outside of Christine's dressing room, where Madame Giry stood pressed against the wall, twirling a key around her index finger. She raised her eyebrows at me and clucked disapprovingly at my breathless state, then rolled her tart blue eyes and tossed the keys to me.

"I hope you know what you are doing, Erik," she whispered, glancing worriedly at the door. "That child trusts you with her life."

"And I intend to take good care of it," I assured her with a look so earnest that she dropped her guard and offered me one of her rare smiles. Her eyes snapped suddenly to the door as the handle turned, but I had already leapt into shadow. She pressed herself against the wall so that the door opened in front of her, shielding her from the rowdy vicomte's view. As the boy trounced off, calling for his groom, I shut the door with an echoing click, and locked it securely before tossing the keys back to Giry with a grateful wink. She sighed, throwing her hands up in a gesture that stated clearly that she wanted nothing further to do with it, and followed briskly after the vicomte.

Spying a shortcut that I had forgotten about before, I knocked quickly on a hollow brick to the left of Christine's door, chastising myself for having forgotten it in my haste, and slipped through the wall as it rotated on a hinge. Still seething from my pupil's misdemeanor, I belted out angrily:

_Insolent boy, this slave of fashion_

_Basking in your glory!_

_Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor_

_Sharing in MY triumph!_

I reached the mirror once more and peered in at Christine. She stood paralyzed with fear, unaccustomed to my harsh tone. Her chin trembled slightly as she looked around the room with wide eyes.

_Angel, I hear you;_

_Speak, I listen!_

_Stay by my side,_

_Guide me!_

_Angel, my soul was weak,_

_Forgive me-_

_Enter at last, Master!_

Her sweet, innocent song melted the wall of ice around my heart instantaneously, and I suddenly loathed myself for frightening her. It was not her fault that the boy couldn't tear his eyes from her... and she could not help past acquaintances.

No, the sins did not belong to my faultless, perfect Christine, but to that arrogant, hotheaded Raoul de Chagny. I would deal with him soon enough.

Barely breathing, I smiled.

_Flattering child, you shall know me_

_See why in shadow I hide_

_Look at your face in the mirror_

_I am there inside!_

With a deft flick of the wrist, I flipped the lever to a contraption which I had invented earlier in the year. The lights in the otherwise dark hallway blared to life, and a sliding panel behind the mirror slid open, allowing her to lay eyes on me for the first time.

I stared at her, and she at me. Her full pink lips fell open in wonder, curling at the tips in the shadow of a smile. My heart hammered mercilessly in my chest as she drew nearer and nearer. My gloved hand stretched outward of its own accord, for I no longer had any control over my bodily functions. Her eyes remained glued to mine- brown to blue- as I sang to her, beckoned to her...

_I am your Angel of Music,_

_Come to me, Angel of Music..._

And she did. Finally, she was close... so close... and she reached up that slender, pale hand, and laid it gently in mine. Her hand was warm, and sent a wave of electricity shooting up my arm. A smile of tender disbelief parted her lips, and spread to mine. I realized then that I had been as surreal to her as she to me... and now we were united, we who had melded our music, been each others' sole companions and inspirations, were now tangible beings as well.

I nearly drowned in her eyes as we began our descent into the realm of the music of the night.


	6. The Phantom of the Opera

_A/N: Okay, so here's the deal. I am rather unhappy with this chapter, as it were, but my Muse remains stubbornly silent, so for the moment I'm afraid we'll just have to deal with it. However, as a trade-off of sorts, I'm posting a double-update... this chapter and the next. Hopefully (and I believe) the next is much better, so please don't be discouraged -offers plate of gooey chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven-_

_Disclaimer: Me... own Phantom... -cracks up-_

From that point on, she did not refer to me as her Angel... that is, until the very end. Ever since her hand first came to rest in mine and I had moved from a concept to a tangible being, I had been dubbed "The Phantom of the Opera"- a name which I had considered to be childish and vexing until it came from Christine's mouth, at which point I accepted the name gratefully. Any way that she wished to acknowledge my presence was just fine with me, especially as she did now, her mouth hanging open in wonder.

Her eyes did not leave my face. I blushed ferociously, but retained a cool, confident expression in a vain attempt to hide it. Christine seemed particularly interested in my mask, to my never-ending frustration, and kept trying to look at me at an angle which would reveal the flesh underneath.

We traveled in silence for the first couple of moments before she broke into song unexpectedly. It was a melody which I had used in her lessons, and she seemed to be amusing herself as she pondered appropriate lyrics.

_In sleep he sang to me,_

_In dreams he came..._

_That voice which calls to me,_

_And speaks my name_

_And do I dream again?_

_For now I find_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there_

_Inside my mind._

My spirit lifted with the sound of her voice, and I was compelled to continue the familiar exercise with a melody of my own. Two could play at this songwriting game.

_Sing once again with me_

_Our strange duet_

_My power over you_

_Grows stronger yet_

_And though you turn from me_

_To glance behind_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there_

_Inside your mind_

A catchy tune indeed... not one of my best, I admitted, but simple enough to use as a creative outlet. I had learned a long time ago that Christine and I communicated best through music- it was a language that we both spoke and understood fluently, so we didn't often bother with mundane speech when something needed to be asked or explained.

_Those who have seen your face_

_Draw back in fear_

_I am the mask you wear..._

I did not like the way this song was headed, nor her increasingly curious stare which was fixated on my mask. Using my influence over her (for indeed, when I sang, she entered a dreamlike trance, listening to and obeying everything I said), I quickly interrupted, changing the topic back to the one we shared most intimately,

_It's me they hear..._

We reached the end of one dimly lit hallway and entered a connecting corridor with a high ceiling, where my black stallion, Cesar, waited patiently. I lifted Christine onto his back and led him down the slippery stone slope to the point where the lake met the fifth cellar of the opera house. Christine slid gently from the horse's saddle, allowing me to catch her by the waist as her feet hit the ground. Both drawn to and intimidated by the closeness of our bodies (and realizing for the first time that she was scantily clad in white lingerie), I turned quickly away, gesturing with my free hand to the boat which bobbed gently in the murky water. I fastened Cesar's reins to his hitching post near the water and tossed him a flake of hay, then leapt gracefully into the boat in front of Christine, who grew more precarious by the moment.

I began to sing again as I rowed the boat toward my dwelling, this time met note by note by Christine in a spellbinding duet:

_Your/my spirit and your/my voice_

_In one, combined,_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there_

_Inside your/my mind._

If the content hadn't been so serious, I would have laughed. My clever Christine knew me so very well... she never ceased to surprise me, and duets were always welcome ones. She fell silent once again, but continued to gape at me in wonder. I urged her to sing, calling her _my_ Angel of Music, as she had obviously decided to drop that title for myself. She complied willingly, her mouth forming a perfect "o" as her voice rose and fell harmoniously, demonstrating the full capability of her range. I had her deep under my spell- the spell of music- and she, in return, had me mesmerized.

We finally reached the gate to my home, which raised in a timely fashion as I had programmed it to do earlier in the evening. The candles, too, raised from the watery horizon accordingly, and Christine's eyes grew even wider, if that was possible, at the sight of my rather remarkable underground lair. She hit one final, piercingly high note as the helm hit the stone shore, and I stepped lightly out of the boat.

I watched her intently as she absorbed her surroundings, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. My mouth curled in an amused smile at her surprise; it appeared to be a good type. Our eyes locked for a brief moment before I turned to my organ, collecting my wits and nerves for the performance of my lifetime. I was about to present her with an opportunity unlike any she'd received or ever would again; I had to make it convincing. I had only one chance at this.


	7. The Music of the Night

_A/N: A LONG chapter -gasp- You must be joking... :P No, seriously, this thing is about half as long as every other chapter combined... Anyone care to guess as to what my favorite song is?_

_Oh, and there were a few spelling errors in the first draft of this chapter (Silly me -slaps head- That's what I get for not spell-checking!) so I had to re-post it. Sorry for any inconveniences... ;) -offers a variety of baked goods-_

_Disclaimer: -continues laughing hysterically-_

She deserved an explanation. Throughout our descent into the dark, dreary vaults of the Opera, Christine's eyes had widened in a vast span of emotions, from adoration to incredulity to terror and everything in between. Now she sat, still agape, her chin tilted slightly to the side. Her eyes were now filled with an odd combination of the aforementioned emotions- she didn't know what to think any more.

To be honest, neither did I.

My heart hammered viciously in my chest, threatening to burst from its prison with one single word from those perfect lips. Luckily, she remained silent, waiting for me to do or say something... anything...

But I was momentarily paralyzed. The flickering candlelight illuminated her chestnut curls, highlighting them in an ironic likeness to a halo. She and I seemed to be trading the role of angel, but it was blatantly obvious which of the two more deserved the title.

I was in love.

The thought hit me like a blow to the stomach, forcing me to turn my back to her. No... no, it couldn't be. I could not allow myself to love such a creature... a beautiful, untarnished creature of light. She was merely my pupil, a tool with which I could prove to those ignorant pigs of Parisian aristocracy that even the Devil's Child himself could create something of unparalleled beauty.

But even in my head the lie sounded empty. I had adored Christine Daaé since the moment I first heard her sing. But the small, frightened child that I had taken under my wing had blossomed into a woman, and my affections had developed accordingly. I could no longer deny it, even to myself.

Breathing heavily, I turned and met her eyes once more. This time, I did not let them go.

_I have brought you _

_To the seat of sweet music's throne_

_To this kingdom where all must pay homage to music..._

_Music..._

_You have come here_

_For one purpose and one alone_

_Since the moment I first heard you sing_

_I have needed you with me to serve me, to sing for my music..._

_My music..._

I recognized the desperation and possessiveness that had crept, unbidden, into my voice. It was subconscious, I suppose; I had never really owned anything of great worth or importance, and now that I had Christine within my grasp, I would have taken death over letting her slip away from me. _Especially_ to that troublesome vicomte, whose very existence threatened our budding relationship. My every last hope for companionship and an end to my desolate loneliness rested in Christine. The pressure was all-encompassing; she _needed _to want me... or at the very least, want the lessons and resulting fame that her Angel provided. Either way she could learn to love me as I loved her with time. I would see to that.

But curse these venomous lips, for I had frightened her again. She was bewildered, scared speechless by that very possessive vigor which I could not control any more than my love for her. An awkward silence ensued, and I attempted to soften my expression and tone. Perhaps a different song... a lullaby... assuring her of her safety within this dark cellar...

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation_

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination_

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses_

I allowed the last note to drift slowly into silence. My plan had worked; the fear began to drain from those chocolate brown pools in ebbing waves, replaced with the calm, content, expectant look that had become custom whenever I sang to her. I could almost see my transition in her eyes from the Phantom of the Opera back to her Angel of Music. I much preferred it that way. With a tender smile, I extended my hand to her, and helped her from the boat.

_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor_

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender_

She was once again under my spell of music, her eyes locked with mine as I gently led her backwards. The enchantment was broken momentarily as the shadow of a frown crinkled her brow, and she glanced worriedly over her shoulder. I reached up an ebony gloved hand and gently tilted her face back towards my own, my eyes softening in reassurance.

_Turn your face away from the garish light of day_

_Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light_

_And listen to the music of the night_

There would be no more interruptions or second thoughts; I could see it in her eyes. Confident in my power over her, I released her hands and continued to back up slowly, allowing her to enter my home and look at my models and drawings, the topic of which was solitary and hopefully flattering. She smiled genuinely up at me as I continued our quiet, comforting lullaby.

_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams_

_Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before_

_Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar..._

She did so, affirming completely the authority that my words had over her. For her benefit (and I must admit, I might have been showing off just a bit), I held out the note, letting it swell and fill the cavernous room before cutting it off abruptly. As I did so, her eyes rolled slightly in awe, and she opened them with an incredulous smile.

_And you'll live as you've never lived before._

I began to circle my organ, the words pouring from the very depths of my soul and into her own.

_Softly, deftly, music shall caress you_

_Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you_

_Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind_

_In this darkness that you know you cannot fight_

_The darkness of the music of the night_

Suddenly my voice swelled with power, but she was no longer afraid; her eyes shone with a deep reverence greater than she'd ever displayed before.

_Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world_

_Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before_

_Let your soul take you where you long to be_

I stepped toward her, trembling fervently, and lightly cupped her chin with my fingertips. I waited for her to scream or pull away as everyone always did, bracing myself for the worst. But Christine did not scream, nor did her delicate features contort in repulsion. She closed her eyes and smiled softly, and -did I imagine it?- nuzzled my palm with her cheek. Tears of relief flooded my eyes, and I was suddenly sure of one thing: I could no longer live without Christine Daaé. My voice trembled, threatening to break, as she opened those beautiful brown eyes and stared lovingly into my own.

_Only then can you belong to me..._

Encouraged by her silent consent, I turned her gently and pressed my abdomen to the small of her back, taking her hands in mine. I buried my face in her curls, inhaling the sweet scent of rosebuds and sunshine and soap that was unique to her alone.

_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication,_

_Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation_

I brought her hand up to caress my left cheek, whispering the lyrics as her touch sent a wave of radiant warmth coursing throughout my body. She looked up at me with adoration, but suddenly it glazed over with curiosity as she remembered the mask and wondered at the secret it concealed. Hesitantly I broke away from her, trying to divert her attention back to the song. With one last gallant effort, I delved into the song with a vibrant power that caused her precious lips to fall open once more.

_Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in_

_To the power of the music that I write_

I beckoned for her to follow me, and she did so obediently. It was time for her to finally understand my true intentions for this little rendezvous.

_The power of the music of the night_

I pulled back the crimson curtain that concealed a small, closet-like space. In the center of the room was a wax figure- an exact replica of my beautiful Christine. I had spent months perfecting every fine detail, right down to the color of the glass eyes. Every freckle, every eyelash, was exactly identical to the woman who now stared at it in disbelief.

The mannequin was clad in an elaborately embroidered wedding dress and matching veil: wordlessly, I had revealed my plan to her- the rest was up to Christine.

Upon looking back at it, perhaps it was a bit much.

A split second later, Christine had collapsed, unconscious, into my arms. I scooped her up easily- she was very light- and swept her off to the room I had prepared for her. Gently, reverently, I laid her on the swan-shaped bed which I had found in an abandoned prop room some years ago. I brought my lips close to her forehead, but thought better of it; if I were ever to kiss her, I wanted it to be with her consent. I remained close to her, however, singing softly into her ear.

_You alone can make my song take flight_

Reluctantly, I pulled away, grasping the cord that lowered the black lace curtain around her bed. She had been through quite a lot throughout the past day, from auditioning and winning the leading role in _Hannibal_ to meeting her mysterious tutor. The poor child needed her rest.

_Help me make the music of the night._

Hence, with one last adoring glance and the end of our lullaby, I left her to a peaceful sleep.


	8. Secretly

_A/N: Argggh, I'm getting rather frustrated with the previous chapter; there are several spelling errors and one problem with the lyrics ("PURGE", dangit...), but for some reason I can't replace it. -says several naughty words- Anyway, sorry about that. This will be the last short-ish chapter for quite awhile; the next is VERY long, so it might be awhile before I finish it. Thanks for your patience, and I promise, I will update ASAP. :)_

_Disclaimer-laughs like a maniac- Phantom... mine... -dies-_

I swayed gently over the organ, my fingers dancing over the ivory keys. Christine stirred in the other room, and I smiled without opening my eyes. I had been writing music all night- quietly, of course, so as not to disturb my guest- for the best opera Paris had ever seen. I had entitled it _Don Juan Triumphant!_, and would begin teaching the role of the lead soprano to Christine as soon as I finished. It was with haste, therefore, that I had scribbled down Acts Two and Three, both finished in the course of a few hours. Yet again, Christine had become my inspiration, not only of the songs themselves (though this was true as well) but to finish the collection with all due speed.

Her angelic voice broke the still morning air and my concentration, though for the moment I attempted to keep my focus on the song in progress so that I might teach it to her later in the day.

_I remember there was mist..._

_Swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake..._

_There were candles all around_

_And on the lake there was a boat,_

_And in the boat there was a man..._

I felt her eyes on the back of my head, but continued to run my fingers over the keys with a furious intensity. I heard her footsteps approach me from behind, but still did not turn to look upon my student and beloved. Perhaps... just perhaps... she would come to me of her own accord, confirming or condemning the events of the previous night...

_Who was that shape in the shadows?_

_Whose is the face in the mask?_

Her warm, slender fingers caressed my neck, and I shuddered in delight, ignoring the unanswered questions. It did not even occur to me that she would attempt to answer them herself...

The cool, crisp air against the right side of my face broke me from my musical trance with a strangled yelp of rage and despair. My wild eyes caught sight of the ivory mask clutched in Christine's hand, and the one sight that I had hoped and prayed never to see...

Those beautiful brown eyes had gone wide, first in horror, then in pity.

_Damn you!_

_You little prying Pandora!_

_You little demon-_

_Is this what you wanted to see?_

I spun on my heel to glance at my repulsive reflection in the mirror, my heart pounding, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

_Curse you!_

_You little lying Delilah!_

_You little viper-_

_Now you cannot ever be free!_

Rage suddenly dissolved into immeasurable despair, and I deflated, crumpling into myself and turning my face away from her.

_Damn you..._

_Curse you..._

To my utter horror, hot tears began to trickle down my cheeks. I brushed at them angrily, then turned to my pupil, my eyes burning into hers.

_Stranger than you dreamt it_

_Can you even dare to look _

_Or bear to think of me,_

_This loathsome gargoyle _

_Who burns in hell but secretly_

_Yearns for heaven_

_Secretly, secretly..._

I dropped to my knees in front of her. Her face was tear streaked, her eyes wide, her brow creased in guilt and shame and pity. All traces of anger had disappeared from my own wretched face. I felt naked looking upon her without my mask, shamed and unworthy, but strangely relieved- for she did not cringe back in horror, and that, at least, was something. It felt as if a large burden had been lifted from my chest; I had nothing to hide from her, nothing to lie about. With a shuddering breath, I decided to take the final plunge, revealing my deepest feelings about her, myself, us...

_But, Christine..._

_Fear can turn to love_

_You'll learn to see_

_To find the man _

_Behind the monster,_

_This repulsive carcass_

_Who seems a beast but secretly_

_Dreams of beauty_

_Secretly, secretly..._

I broke down then, unable to hold that trusting, pitying, understanding gaze any longer. I had just screamed at her, called her names, taken out all of my frustration and rage out on my innocent, beautiful Christine... and now she looked upon this abhorrent face with sympathy and... and...love...

I turned my face away in shame.

_Oh, Christine..._

A cool, smooth, familiar substance brushed my fingertips, and I glanced up momentarily to see Christine, offering my mask to me, her eyes brimming with tears. I accepted it with an understanding nod of my head, and slipped it over my mutilated flesh somberly. When I met her gaze once more, I had dried my tears. I flashed her a brief apologetic look, and she returned it timidly. Our little drama had terminated; now she knew the secret of the Phantom of the Opera, and whether she chose to come back again was entirely up to her. Meanwhile, those obstinate swine who claimed to run my opera house were probably beside themselves wondering where their star had disappeared to.

"Come, we must return," I told her matter-of-factly. "Those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you." She smiled faintly at me, and all misdemeanors were forgotten.

_Another A/N: Concerning the title of this chapter... I'm sure there's a title to this sequence, but I don't know it. My sincerest apologies; forgive the newbie, won't you? Here, have a cookie! ;)_


	9. The Opera Ghost's Assistant

_A/N: Okay, so I lied. ;) I started writing the next chapter, but there were too many gaps and unanswered questions, so I added in this little bit. Fear not, for the remarkably lengthy chapter is on its way, as promised. Here's a little something to satiate you until that time..._

_Disclaimer: Wow, this is getting old. And I'm running out of quirky comments, too... Er... -can't think of one- Nah, they ain't mine._

Her chestnut curls were fanned out across her silk pillow, making her look every bit the part of an angel. She smiled up at me as I placed a reverent kiss on the back of her hand, her fingers extending to stroke my left cheek lovingly.

"Sleep well, Christine," I whispered, backing toward the half-ajar mirror. "You must be well-rested for your performance tonight."

She rolled her eyes humbly. "Thank you, but the part will not be tolling. The page boy's role is silent."

I looked at her with mild surprise. "Page boy? But my dear, you shall be playing the role of the Countess."

Her brow creased slightly, and she propped herself up on an elbow. "I'm afraid you're mistaken; La Carlotta is-" A sudden understanding registered on her face, and her cheeks went pale. "Oh no, Angel, you mustn't..."

I laughed quietly and swept over to her, gently urging her to lay back down. I brushed my fingers over her cheek, and she grabbed my hand tightly in her own.

"Promise me you won't hurt her, _mon ange,_" she begged. "I couldn't stand it..."

"She will not suffer any physical pain," I assured her with a secretive smile. "Her pride, on the other hand, could use a severe lashing..."

Christine cringed, and I suddenly became serious, rubbing her cold fingers gently. "Do you trust me, Christine?"

She hesitated, but nodded in defeat. "You know I do."

I smiled gently. "Then know that I will not do anything to break that trust." She returned the smile, and I left her bedside quietly, slipping back through the mirror without another word.

_Now on to more official matters_, I told myself. I crept through the dark tunnels of my domain, occasionally peering through a crack in the stone or trap doors in search of my assistant. The dining hall, backstage, her office, Box Five, the managers' office... she was nowhere to be found. I soon grew exceedingly frustrated with my inability to summon her on a moment's notice (normally I was not so easily enraged; my haste was fueled by the self-assigned obligation to help Christine's career progress as only the Phantom himself could), and by the time I finally found her, I had worked myself into a fuming temper.

Madame Giry sat in a plush velvet armchair, which was partially hidden behind a large set piece from a production nearly ten years ago. Her long, bony fingers were entwined with her daughter's flaxen hair; her hard blue eyes were narrowed in concentration, following the deft movements of her hands as she added strand after strand to the thickening French braid. A recalcitrant expression contorted Meg's dainty features, suggesting that the two had recently had a falling out. I glanced up at her mother for confirmation, and found it immediately: her jaw was set in a firm line, her muscles tense, her movements exaggerated ever so slightly. My anger dissolved into curiosity, and I decided to wait a moment before interrupting; it was helpful to know the goings-on of my Opera House, especially those of my sole employee and my beloved's best friend.

I didn't have to wait long.

After a particularly harsh tug on her fine tresses, Meg sighed loudly. "Mother, I was just worried about Christine-"

"Hush, Meg," her mother hissed. Madame Giry was silent for a moment before adding quietly, "He does not wish to harm you, but he is a very private man. You must not provoke his anger under any circumstances."

I stiffened. What had Meg done that could arouse such fear in her mother- fear of _me_, nonetheless! (for I was not entirely stupid; I knew to whom she referred) I leaned forward to hear more, but both women fell into an awkward silence. Madame Giry finished braiding her daughter's hair a moment later, and squeezed her shoulder gently. Meg turned to face her, a slight pout tugging at her lower lip.

"I meant him no harm," she said quietly. "You told me he is not as evil as the others say. Why, then, do you fear him so?"

Madame Giry shook her head and sighed. "Sometimes, Meg, you must simply learn to trust my judgment." She cupped her daughter's cheek with one hand. "This is one of those times. All I ask is that you leave the poor man alone. He has suffered enough."

Meg frowned, but nodded. "As long as he does not harm Christine."

Madame Giry yanked her hand away from Meg's cheek, her own brow creasing stubbornly. "Mademoiselle Daaé's business is her own. If she chooses to associate with him, then..." She trailed off, then looked up at her daughter severely. "It doesn't matter. You heard me, Marguerite Eloise, and I expect you to respect my wishes, if not his."

"Yes, ma'am," Meg mumbled, blushing at the rare use of her full name.

Madame Giry nodded. "Good. Now hurry; I can hear the orchestra warming up already." Meg returned the gesture, then hurried off in the direction of the stage. Her mother sat quietly for a moment, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"I find it remarkable that the entire Opera does not know your whereabouts at all times, Monsieur Erik," she said suddenly. Her blue eyes snapped to mine, glinting in amusement. "Your breathing could wake a sleeping giant."

I smiled behind my mask. "Luckily," I countered quickly, "There are no sleeping giants within the Opera Populaire."

She chuckled softly- a rare spectacle, indeed- and tilted her head. "You need something, I presume?"

I frowned. "An answer, first of all. Dare I enquire as to what Meg could do to earn such loathing from me?"

She sighed, lifting her shoulders in a shrug and crossing her legs beneath her skirt. "She entered Mademoiselle Daaé's dressing room last night, hoping to congratulate her, and mysteriously-" She cocked an eyebrow pointedly. "Discovered a beam of light coming through a crack in the mirror."

My heart skipped a beat. "She followed us..."

"Not very far. I realized where she'd gone and brought her back before she could even reach the lake." She seemed to sense my skepticism, for she added earnestly, "And she received a severe chastisement about the dangers of doing so again. I rarely refer to the... exaggerations of Monsieur Buquet..." I snorted, and she nodded her understanding. "However, they seem to have proven effective in preserving your sacred privacy, Monsieur Opera Ghost." Her eyes followed the trail that her daughter had taken moments ago. "I believe her word; she will not investigate the situation further."

Satisfied with her explanation, I nodded. After a moment's hesitation, I added, "I would not hurt her, Céline."

She smiled weakly. "I worry, Erik... sometimes I think even you cannot control that temper of yours." She fell silent, studying her folded hands intently. I did not answer; I was simultaneously outraged and shamed by this simple statement- partially because of her indifferent candor, mostly because I knew it was true.

It was she who finally broke the heavy silence. "But I highly doubt, Monsieur, that you came here to discuss my daughter."

"You assume correctly, Madame," I replied, a bit more harshly than intended. I grabbed the five letters from my inside left coat pocket and dropped them into her lap through a trap door in the ceiling. She read the spidery red scrawl quietly for a moment, thumbing through the envelopes before catching sight of one unsettling name. She looked up at me with wide eyes and produced a noise that lingered somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

"I understand that stirring up chaos within this Opera House is one of your favorite pastimes, Erik, but must we involve her?" she grumbled.

I laughed. "I did not cast La Carlotta in _Il Muto_, Madame; therefore I am not to blame."

Her long, slender fingers united with her temples and moved in rhythmic circles. "I have a migraine already." She sighed. "In person, then?"

"No," I replied quickly. "No, they are each to be delivered to them anonymously via the Opera's post system, save for the last, which you are to present to them together once they have received their individual letters. Understood?"

She nodded weakly, continuing to rub her temples. "Yes, Monsieur; of course, Monsieur; whatever you say, Monsieur..." I laughed, and she smiled, tucking the notes carefully into her robe.

"My deepest thanks, Madame. And believe me this: all of Paris shall thank you, too, when it is Christine in the limelight tonight instead of that Italian pig."

"Then I depart on winged feet, Monsieur Opera Ghost." She winked, and began to follow in her daughter's footsteps toward the stage. She hesitated halfway down the hall, and called over her shoulder, "By the way, I adored those Belgian chocolates you left for me two weeks ago..."

"Understood," I laughed. And with one final, curt nod, she disappeared behind a navy curtain.

With a practiced twirl of my cloak, I turned on my heel and headed quickly back home. My lips curled in a satisfied smirk as the orchestra's music drifted through the walls, and I breathed an almost inaudible, "Showtime."


	10. Far Too Many Notes for My Taste

_A/N: Whew! -fingers crumble to dust- Five hours, and I'm finally done with this (insert favorite adjective) chapter! This is a loooooooong chapter, people; it will probably take awhile to read. So get comfy, buckle your seatbelts, and pretty pretty PRETTY please let me know my work was not in vain, and drop me a review!_

_Disclaimer: Yes. I own Phantom of the Opera, alright? Why are you all taking my story?My characters! My beautiful characters! -lapses into Gollum mode- (S)He WUINS it! (Honestly, these formalities are pointless...)_

Firmin's tall, dark form approached the mail room briskly, his cane and heels clicking rhythmically on the marble floor. I heard his gruff mumbles in response to the rushed formalities of the cleaning staff, and smiled. This would be very entertaining, indeed.

The key jiggled in the door, and swung open with a creak of rusty hinges. Silently cursing Madame Giry and her snide comment from earlier that morning, I held my breath, suddenly extremely aware of the volume of my breathing. Firmin sighed in relief at the sight of the Sunday paper, and snatched it up with the rest of his mail, flipping immediately to the critique section and momentarily ignoring the large white envelope with the familiar skeletal seal. Reading as he walked, he exited the room and headed for the grand staircase. I followed silently, taking a little-known stairway and trap door combination to the tiny, closet-like space above the chandelier in the main entrance. Luckily, Buquet was occupied with rehearsals for the performance that night; he was one of the few crewmen who knew of the room, and whenever I needed to use it I constantly worried that we would have another of our unpleasant encounters. I was growing rather tired of his insatiable curiosity, and had convinced myself by that point that if he were to bump into me again, one of my infamous disasters might be unavoidable...

But he was not in the room, nor anywhere near, so I settled on my stomach above the chandelier, peering down at the preoccupied manager through a peep hole I'd fashioned a few years ago for just such a purpose.

Firmin's stride had slowed considerably, and his dark eyes had widened at the bold headline. He murmured the first few lines under his breath, then tucked the paper under his arm and began to sing loudly (and extremely off-key, might I add), apparently to the few servants who paid him no heed.

_"Mystery after gala night," it says,_

"_Mystery of soprano's flight._

'_Mystified,' all the papers say,_

'_We are mystified-_

_We suspect foul play!'"_

_Bad news on soprano scene-_

_First Carlotta, now Christine!_

_Still, at least the seats get sold;_

_Gossip's worth its weight in gold..._

I nodded. The cover story was predictable; of course, the papers wouldn't dare mention the mysterious Phantom of the Opera... "foul play" was simple enough. The reporters were not yet desperate enough to rely on a ghost story for an explanation, and such a statement would leave room for questioning suspects and making yet _more_ headlines. Firmin and Andre would now stand their first test of time, as each manager before them had done. I suspected that they wouldn't last much longer; soon they would be running for the exit, their hypothetical tails tucked between their legs, begging to return to their precious junk business.

I hoped that Firmin had finished his horrible little excuse for a tune, but to my utter exasperation he continued even more boldly than before, ascending the stairs with a slight bounce to his step:

_What a way to run a business!_

_Spare me these unending trials!_

_Half your cast disappears,_

_But the crowd still cheers!_

_Opera-_

_To hell with Gluck and Handel,_

_Have a scandal and you're sure to have a hit!_

I rolled my eyes. "Amateur," I mumbled. Just as I received my fill of the off-key troubles of junk-business-turned-opera-managers, Andre burst into the room, his plump face flushed in fury.

_Damnable! Will they all walk out?_

_This is damnable!_

Trying to stifle the amusing thought that Andre resembled a ripe tomato with a mustache, I focused my attention back on Firmin.

_Andre, please don't shout;_

_It's publicity! And the take is vast-_

_Free publicity..._

Andre's face only reddened further. _But we have no cast!_ he yelped.

Firmin shook his balding head, placing one hand on his partner's shoulder.

_But Andre, have you seen the queue?_ His beady black eyes suddenly settled on the large white envelope crushed in his partner's sausage-like fingers. _Ah, it seems you've got one too..._

I rubbed my hands together like a small child, a gleeful smirk splitting my face. Now the fun would truly begin...

Andre snatched the letter from his friend's hands and began to read aloud in a singing voice twice as horrible as Firmin's.

_"Dear Andre, what a charming gala!_

_Christine was, in a word, sublime._

_We were hardly bereft when Carlotta left._

_On that note: the diva's a disaster_

_Must you cast her when she's seasons past her prime?"_

I found myself mouthing along with the words to my letter, a smug grin still pasted on my face. "Amen," I whispered to myself as he folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope. Aside from Meg Giry, the chorus girls all resembled a flock of hens, flapping their arms and legs in a vain attempt to call as much attention to their unremarkable selves as possible. And, of course, the worst of them by far was La Carlotta, that screeching, self-absorbed, pigheaded excuse for an Opera singer that the aforementioned chorus girls looked up to with shining eyes and incessant compliments. The woman's ego was almost as bloated as her blubbering, drunken assistant, Piangi, whom I cared for almost as little as his mistress. And yet these two fools Andre and Firmin insisted blindly on maintaining the atrocious cast that had plagued my Opera House for the past two years! It was high time I did something to drag the Opera Populaire from its sunken depths; I had turned a blind eye to the floundering performances during my intense training of its upcoming star, focusing solely on Christine's progress. Now I saw my errors quite clearly, and fully intended to return everything to normal just in time for Christine's rise to stardom.

As Andre slipped his letter back into its envelope, Firmin produced his own, and continued to read it in that same monotonous, infuriatingly repetitive tune:

_"Dear Firmin, just a brief reminder:_

_My salary has not been paid._

_Send it care of the ghost by return of post._

_P.T.O.: No one likes a debtor,_

_So it's better if my orders are obeyed!"_

The two managers looked at each other with furrowed brows, and began to strut along the main hallway with as much grace as the Italian snob herself. Their voices mingled in a hair-raising duet, and I struck my forehead with the palm of my hand in disgust.

_Who would have the gall to send this?_

_Someone with a puerile brain..._

I scowled down at them, my temper flaring. I had been called many things in my life, many of which were true, but _puerile_? Most certainly not! I had refrained from the use of foul language in my description of the dancing, and had asked in a very gentlemanly, courteous manner for the continued favors that really shouldn't have cost them a second thought. And now I was _puerile?_

I fingered the chain to the chandelier, putting a considerable amount of thought into dropping it onto their bloated heads and ending my troubles then and there, but decided against it, merely for the sake of making my point. I was not a spoiled child; they had yet to receive my final note and warning before I took action. I never went back on my word.

So I merely sighed, mimicking Madame Giry's gesture as I massaged my throbbing temples. Perhaps she was right about the migraines...

Meanwhile, my obtuse managers continued to squabble over the origin of their letters:

_These are both signed O.G.,_ Firmin noted, glancing from one letter to the next. I had to fight very hard to resist clapping unenthusiastically for his discovery.

_Who the hell is he?_ Andre demanded. I looked at him, nauseated. He _had_ to be joking!

_Opera Ghost!_ The two exclaimed at the same time. I banged my head on the wooden floor quietly. What had I done to deserve this torture? Had I not run my opera splendidly up until this point?

_It's nothing short of shocking_! Firmin insisted.

_He is mocking our position,_ Andre added indignantly.

_In addition he wants money_, Firmin observed. I threw my hands up in the air. Ah, so they _did_ get the hint!

_What a funny apparition_, Andre chimed in before their voices melded once more:

_To expect a large retainer;_

_Nothing plainer-_

_He is clearly quite insane!_

Seething with hatred for these thick-headed morons, I drew my sword and prepared to slice the chandelier from its support, damned be coolheaded patience; I couldn't stand it any more!

Fortunately for those two blockheads, the vicomte burst through the front doors a moment later, distracting me from my task. He was short of breath, his forehead damp with sweat, and he clutched a familiar white envelope in his hand.

_Where is she?_ He demanded. The surprised managers exchanged confused glances.

_You mean Carlotta?_ Andre suggested stupidly.

_I mean Miss Daaé! Where is she?_ The vicomte repeated, marching up the steps toward the two men; they shrank back visibly at his apparent outrage, while I smirked.

"Afraid of a little bit of competition, Monsieur de Chagny?" I whispered, my mood greatly improved at his indignation.

_Well, how should we know?_ Firmin protested simultaneously.

_I want an answer!_ The vicomte insisted, brandishing his letter in front of the managers' bewildered faces. _I take it that you sent me this note?_

I fought back a sudden onslaught of nausea. Good _God_, I was surrounded by idiots! How in the world was I supposed to make Christine into a prima donna with these imbeciles running my Opera! None of these men could even be bothered to _read_ the signature, let alone take the hint of the seal...

_What's all this nonsense?_ Firmin demanded, oblivious to his conspicuous hypocrisy.

_Of course not!_ Andre croaked huffily.

_Don't look at us!_ Firmin reiterated.

_She's not with you, then?_ The Vicomte took a step back, frowning. My body shook with silent laughter; this freak show was undeniably obnoxious, but his outrage was enough to brighten even the darkest of my moods. I did not appreciate the way he followed Christine, the way he looked at her, the way he embraced her, the way...

I stopped myself before leaping off into a brooding monologue, contenting myself with observing his current situation, not past ones.

_Of course not!_ Firmin echoed his partner.

_We're in the dark,_ Andre insisted. I grinned, fingering the chandelier's golden chain.

"Not yet, you're not," I breathed in a sing-song voice.

_Monsieur, don't argue,_ the vicomte barked, flailing his note relentlessly in front of their increasingly perplexed faces. _Isn't this the letter you wrote?_

_And what is it that we're meant to have wrote? _Firmin asked, snatching the letter from the vicomte's clenched fist. He peered quickly at the letter, then with an aggravated air, corrected himself: _Written!_

It was Andre who began to read my note aloud: "Do not fear for Miss Daaé; the Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again." The two managers exchanged baffled glances, then looked helplessly at their patron.

The vicomte's blue eyes filled with a panicked desperation. "If you didn't write it, then who did?"

I waited for one of the managers to share their wondrous, apparently brain-wracking revelation, but the explanation never came. Just as Firmin opened his mouth to speak, the front door flew open again with a painfully familiar screeching.

_Where is he?_ La Carlotta demanded, bursting through the door with a puffing Piangi trailing at her heels like one of her many ribbon and ruffle-clad poodles. Both managers brightened visibly at the return of one of their starlets.

_Ah, welcome back!_ Andre offered with a smile and a bow.

_Your precious patron, where is he?_ She belted, stomping up the stairs. The vicomte turned steadily to look at her, his expression mirroring my own dislike of the Italian diva.

_What is it now?_ He sighed, his cold blue eyes boring into her. In that single moment, I liked him. Only for a moment, mind you, before I remembered that his irritability was caused by his unsettling worry for _my_ Christine. However, no one else dared to talk down to La Carlotta, and I was impressed that this boy had the nerve to do so.

The diva, however, was unfazed by his contempt; she stormed directly up to him and waved her own crimson-sealed envelope in the vicomte's face. _I have your letter– a letter which I rather resent!_

Firmin and Andre glanced at each other briefly, still oblivious to my little motif.

_And did you send it?_ Firmin pressed.

_Of course not!_ The vicomte half-roared, growing more and more exasperated by the moment.

_As if he would!_ Andre snorted.

_You didn't send it?_ Carlotta squawked.

_Of course not!_ Now it was the vicomte's face that reddened in fury. Meanwhile, I was beside myself, laughing to the point that tears streamed down my cheeks. I rolled onto my back and then back onto my stomach, clutching my aching abdomen and gasping for air between wheezing bursts of laughter.

_What's going on?_ Firmin wondered aloud. His tone and expression reminded me vividly of a whiny, spoiled child whose vision of a spectacle was obscured by a taller man's head.

La Carlotta would have none of what she believed to be the vicomte's lies. She took a step closer to him, her piercing brown eyes narrowed vindictively. _You dare to tell me that this is not the letter you sent?_

_And what is it that I'm meant to have sent?_ The vicomte sighed, seizing her letter. He unfolded the thin paper irritably, and began to read the notorious red scrawl aloud. "Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Christine Daaé will be singing on your behalf tonight. Be prepared for a great misfortune, should you attempt to take her place." As he read, La Carlotta began to cry, casting a pouty glance at the managers. As soon as the vicomte finished reading, the two men leapt to her side, each taking her comfortingly by an arm and throwing vitriolically suspicious glances at the patron before bursting into song again:

_Far too many notes for my taste–_

_And most of them about Christine!_

_All we've heard since we came _

_Is Miss Daaé's name..._

Fortunately, before those two idiots could throw either the vicomte or me into a raging fit, the Girys entered (with perfect timing, as usual).

_Miss Daaé has returned_, Madame Giry announced, stopping at the foot of the stairs.

Firmin rolled his beady eyes. _I hope no worse for wear as far as we're concerned... _The vicomte and I both reached for our swords at the same moment; unfortunately Andre interrupted with the question that burned on both of our minds before we could do anything foolish.

_Where precisely is she now?_

All eyes were now on the ballet mistress. _I thought it best she was alone_, she explained.

_She needed rest_, little Meg chimed in.

_May I see her?_ The vicomte asked, his voice tinged with desperation.

To my utter relief, Madame Giry shook her head. _No, Monsieur, she will see no-one._

I punched the air in a gesture of triumph. "Take _that_, my dear vicomte."

_Will she sing? Will she sing?_ Carlotta demanded, and all of them leaned forward to hear the fateful answer.

Predictably (although by that point it would not have surprised me if they had all gasped at the sight of the now extremely familiar envelope), Madame Giry produced the letter that I had instructed her to present at just such a moment. _Here, I have a note._

All of them moved forward, their hands outstretched. _Let me see it!_ They chorused together.

Firmin added a curt "please" as he snatched the letter from Madame Giry's hand. He began to read my final note aloud as everyone else leaned in to follow along. "Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theater is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Christine Daaé has returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of 'Il Muto,' you will therefore cast Carlotta as the Pageboy, and put Miss Daaé in the role of Countess. The role which Miss Daaé plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the Pageboy is silent - which makes my casting, in a word, ideal. I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, O.G."

I rose slowly to my feet then, so as not to draw their attention. As entertaining as La Carlotta's nasal bawling was, I had received my fair share of alternating amusement and utter disappointment from my staff for one day. Massaging my now throbbing head, I retreated into the sacred silence of the Opera's cellars. I paused for a moment behind Christine's mirror, watching her chest rise and fall gently as she slept. It would all be worth it if she held the limelight that night. And if not...

My lips curled in a mischievous smile as I hurried down to my lair to continue working on my opera.

...If not, then I would have a remarkable amount of fun making all of them suffer. And it would all begin with La Carlotta.


	11. The Dissonant Interruption

_A/N: I know, I know, it's been forever since I've updated -holds up a tray of baked goods as a buffer- Don't kill me, please! Here, have some E/C fluff :) Enjoy it while it lasts; there won't be much of it in this 'fic, unfortunately. _

_Oh! And by the way, because I love and adore my reviewers oh so very much, I'll be posting replies to as many as I can from now on at the end of each chapter. No fair scrolling down to the end; you have to read it first! LOL. Okay, now seriously, back to the story..._

In that mere fifteen minutes of glorious peace, I had single-handedly managed to cover my entire desk, bench, floor, end table and organ in stacks upon stacks of sheet music. The long, aching fingers of my left hand glided swiftly over the organ's ivory and ebony keys, while those of my right acted as frantic catalysts to translate each and every note onto paper, pausing only to dip the end of my quill into a bottle of ink at the end of each measure. Each time I finished a sheet, I would only bother to glance at it for the briefest of moments before casting it haphazardly to the side; I could not be inconvenienced with organization or cleanliness while composing the greatest opera of all time!

I breathed deeply, reveling in the familiar vibrations of the magnificent melody in my chest. My head swayed in time in a gentle rocking motion from side to side, front to back. The music poured from somewhere in the depths of my soul, pleasantly surprising even myself. And so my musical journey continued, uninterrupted and with mounting passion, for those magnificent fifteen minutes, until quite suddenly...

A very familiar, hair-raising, ear-piercing shriek echoed overhead, jolting me from my trance; my fingers faltered on the organ keys, producing a rather unpleasant, sharp chord. I growled viciously, my eyes rolling upwards as if my glare could reach the obnoxious Italian diva through five levels of stone. However, I relaxed slightly after a moment, suddenly flooded with relief.

What else could make Carlotta howl in such a wounded fashion if not her replacement by Christine in the performance that night?

A nasty little voice in the back of my head replied, _Well, let's see... her eggs could have been over-cooked, her dress not completed in time, her poodles run over by a stage coach..._

I silenced the voice with an irritated snarl, rising from my organ with a twirl of my cloak. I leapt nimbly into my boat and poled across the lake as quickly as my aching biceps would allow, straining to hear any more little snippets that might hint at the managers' verdict. Occasionally Carlotta would let out a nasal wail, and once I heard a door slam overhead, but still I did not know the source of her distress for certain; I could only guess and hope that those two blockheads Andre and Firmin had had a change of heart in accordance with my letters, and that each shriek from Carlotta equaled a radiant smile from my beautiful Christine.

Finally I reached the opposite shore of the lake, and raced around the dim corner.

And promptly smacked into a flustered Christine, just on her way down to see me. We both fell back with matching screams; I landed hard on my rear end and skidded down the slick decline with a few choice words that deepened the blush on Christine's cheeks. Meanwhile, she had tripped, but caught herself promptly, her reflexes apparently much better than my own.

"I'm so sorry!" she cried, rushing down the slope and dropping to her knees beside me. She grabbed my shoulders and looked deeply into my eyes, her brow creased in concern. "Are you hurt, _mon ange_?"

I didn't answer her for a moment, not because I was actually hurt, but because... well... it was nice to be fussed over. After a moment, I offered a small smile, bringing one hand up to rest gently on top of hers.

"No, no, it was my fault. I should have known better than to race blindly through these halls." I grinned devilishly. "Dangerous business, this whole Phantom thing..."

She laughed, tilting her curly head backwards as the sweet sound saturated my soul. With very little effort, she climbed back to her feet, and offered her hands to me. I stared at them for a moment, and some thin strand within me seemed to snap. I nearly broke down then, sobbing like a small child in front of this untarnished beauty, who stood before me, her arms outstretched to me as if it were nothing.

But it was everything in the world to me.

She saw the tears in my eyes and dropped to her knees once more, her warm fingers caressing the unmasked side of my face gently. "Angel, what's wrong?" she whispered.

I turned my face away from her, unable to stare into those gentle eyes. "No one has ever cared for me before, Christine," I told her honestly. "Your compassion means the world to me." My lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Usually people throw me to the floor, not help me from it."

Her own eyes misted with tears as she continued to stroke my cheek softly. She turned my face towards her, and hesitantly I met her gaze.

I was convinced that it was all a wonderful dream, that it could not possibly happen in reality. Slowly, her face drew close, her eyes locked with mine, until I could feel her warm, moist breath against my lips. Her hands rested lightly on my face, and I closed my eyes, waiting for the impossible...

But just as her lips came within a millimeter of my own, another of Carlotta's shrieks pierced the silence of the dark cellar, startling us both. Christine turned away quickly, her cheeks turning five shades of red. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and buried her face in them. I watched her, still completely stunned, as she began to giggle. Soon, her laughter filled the cold, dark corridor, and I couldn't help but begin to chuckle as well; her joy was contagious. We both sat there for a good amount of time, happy just to be together, laughing hysterically at absolutely nothing. Finally, our laughter faded into silence, and I glanced mischievously at the stone ceiling, then at Christine.

"What would you say if I offered you the opportunity to view the Opera Populaire from an entirely new perspective?" I asked her suddenly.

Christine grinned, following my gaze to the trap door just above our heads. "From the eyes of the mysterious Opera Ghost, perhaps?"

I laughed in a mockingly genteel manner. "Oh, come now, Christine, you know there's no such thing as ghosts..." Her laughter mingled with mine.

"You sound like Raoul," she commented. I cringed, flashing her an offended glare, which only made her laugh harder. Still gasping for breath between bursts of giggles, we both climbed to our feet, and I hoisted her up (being _very_ careful to avoid the temptation of peeking up her skirt- take _that_, Monsieurs Andre and Firmin. _Puerile_! Indeed!) through the trap door, then climbed in myself. It was even darker in the crawl space than in the corridor below, but I could see Christine's eyes sparkle in delight with the little light coming through the crack in the trap door.

"Alright, lesson number one in being an Opera Ghost," I announced in a mockingly serious tone. Christine giggled, but clamped her hand over her mouth. "Is silence. No one must notice your presence under any circumstances unless you wish to make an appearance, which should be done as infrequently as possible." I heard her nod, and felt for her hand in the darkness. "If for some reason you become afraid, we can leave immediately..."

"I'll be fine!" Christine assured me, unable to conceal the childlike excitement in her voice. "Let's go..."

"Quietly," I emphasized again. She sighed in exasperation, and I smiled. "Alright. Grab my ankle so you don't fall behind. That's it. Now if you will, Mademoiselle Daaé, follow me."

_A/N: Like it? Hate it? Review please-sends Erik and Christine out to do a little jig as a bribe- Ahem, yes, on to the responses to my lovely reviewers whom I absolutely adore..._

_**Hriviel**: Yes, I was extremely upset when I couldn't find the movie-version of the lyrics, and as I have only seen the movie three times -sighs sadly- I don't have them memorized unless they're on the soundtrack. However, I found this neat little site with a comparison of the two versions of every song, including those not on the movie soundtrack, so I'll go back and change those lyrics ASAP. Thanks for noting those, though! It assures me that you're paying attention. LOL!_

_**Sakume**: "Addicted list?" Woo hoo-does happy dance- Thank you so much! You flatter me; I'm blushing like a maniac._

_**Shadow Fox Forever**: Thank you so much for continuing to read and review:) It's people like you that make me continue writing even when I feel like my fingers are about to fall off. -huggles- Cookie?_

_**Venus725**: I believe you have been my most devoted reviewer. -bows at your feet- Thank you, thank you, thank you! I can't express to you how much I appreciate it._

_**Pickledishkiller**: Awesome screen name:) Thank you... that was the point; to add a little Erik-ish humor to that scene. I'm glad you liked my portrayal of Madame Giry as well... LOL... she kicks butt-grins-_

_**Masako Moonshade**: Hey, better late than never! LOL. Welcome, and thanks for reviewing. Hyperventilating-blushes- Awww, shucks... Thanks... I don't deserve it, and I really don't know how to reply to that, but... er... have a cookie? LOL._

_I apologize so much to those of you whom I couldn't respond to; it's been a very hectic week, and I'm running on about two hours of sleep, so if you drop me another review -hint hint- I'll definitely respond next time. :) -trounces off to get coffee and write next chapter-_


	12. Prima Donna

_A/N: I did it! I saw Phantom for the FOURTH time on Sunday! -happy dance- Oh, and I just went out and bought the extended version of the movie soundtrack, so you can kiss those nasty lyric errors goodbye. I'll go back and fix those soon, not because you all care, per se, but because I'm a perfectionist and proud of it. Lol. _

_Disclaimer: "Here, I have a note." (Psst! This is where you all say "Let me see it!") _

_Dearest readers, _

_I am here to inform you quite tersely that while the author of this so-called "phanphic" falls easily under the category of a so-called "phanatic," she most certainly does not own me, my Opera House, or Christine Daaé. However, I cannot speak for the Vicomte. (Nade jumps in to squeal excitedly. "Mine, MINE! ALL MINE!" -takes Raoul and runs-) Ahem. Anyway, I find this whole disclaimer business to be rather tedious, so I do not wish to hear any more of this legal mumbo-jumbo. If you should continue to require this ridiculous little formality at the beginning of every chapter, I'm afraid one of my infamous "disasters beyond your imagination" might be unavoidable. Now leave me alone, you obsessive lunatics. _

_I remain, your obedient servant, _

_O.G. _

True to her word, Christine remained perfectly silent as we crept through the cold, narrow crawlspace just above the main floor. Her shallow breathing and the constant, gentle pressure of her hand on my ankle both soothed and reassured me; never before had I enjoyed traveling through the dark passageways of the Opera as when Christine was there beside me, lending her warmth to the otherwise frigid, foreboding atmosphere. Even when we stumbled upon a nest of fat, hissing rats, Christine remained calm; the only sign of her discomfort was the way her nails dug painfully into my skin and the subtle change of pace in the intervals of her breathing. After shooing the rodents away with the wave of a blazing match, I turned to my frightened companion, grasping her forearm gently.

"Shall we go back?" I asked quietly. In the flickering firelight, I saw Christine's wan face lift in a brave smile.

"Over a few pesky rats?" she replied breathlessly. "No, of course not. I'm not afraid. Go on." I stared at her uncertainly for a moment before she nudged my shoulder, gripping my ankle meaningfully. "I'm_ fine_. Please, let's continue. I've never done anything so daring in my life." Her smile was genuinely thrilled, so I swallowed my skepticism and protective instincts and did as she said.

Fortunately, we did not run into any more rodents, exceedingly large spiders or the occasional snake that sometimes occupied the cool, quiet passageways. When we finally reached a dead end in the tunnel, I let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief. I dug in my pockets for my book of matches and, upon finding it, struck one of them, turning to face Christine. I beckoned for her to lean closer, and began to whisper instructions into her ear.

"It is paramount that we remain completely silent throughout this next portion of our journey." I gestured to the slab of wood on which the two of us crouched, and she nodded her understanding. "Directly underneath us is the hallway that leads to La Carlotta's dressing room. The passage that encircles her room is inaccessible by any other means but this: we must drop through the ceiling, and take immediate cover in shadow. Next to the third gargoyle statue there is a small knot in the stone; I want you to remain hidden in the doorway below us until I beckon for you to follow. A small section of the wall next to the knot will swing open; this is the secret passage from which we will be able to see and hear all of the goings-on of the diva's room. Understood?"

Christine's eyes danced in the firelight, her lips twitching in a mischievous smile. "Understood." I nodded somberly, but could not keep an excited glint from my own eyes. With any luck, we would soon witness the utter humiliation and resulting tantrum of the prima donna as the managers finally got my not-so-subtle hints and replaced her with Christine in that night's gala.

Just as my match burned out, I grasped the rusted copper handle of the trap door, gesturing for Christine to move behind me. The rustle of her skirt followed, and when I felt her warm fingers come to rest on my back, I nodded to her, and opened the wooden door with the tiniest creak of the latch. We both cringed; of course, the sound seemed ten times louder to our anxious ears than to any passersby, of which there were none anyway. Once sure that the coast was clear, I dropped lightly to the ground below, and held my hands up meaningfully to Christine. She followed suit eagerly, falling into my waiting arms with a practiced grace that shed light on her extensive ballet training. I smiled at her briefly, placing my hand at the small of her back and ushering her quickly into the shadowed doorway. Down the hall, we could already hear Carlotta's moaning, the scrape of furniture against the stone floors, and the distinct shattering of glass. Christine flinched at this last sound, and I stroked her back gently in reassurance.

After looking the hallway up and down several times, I crept stealthily down to the aforementioned statue, prodding the knot roughly. My obedient Christine had remained in her hiding place, the only visible portion of her being those large, excited brown eyes and a tuft of chestnut hair. I nodded to her, extending my hand. She darted out from the doorway and clasped my gloved hand in her own, following me willingly into yet another dimly lit passage.

Sure enough, each of Carlotta's heavily accented words rang clearly through the thin walls, but now several other, distinctly male voices accompanied hers. I cocked my head slightly out of habit as I listened, and picked out the individual voices.

"Piangi, Firmin and Andre are with her," I whispered into Christine's ear. She nodded, her fingers squeezing mine excitedly. I led her deeper into the tunnel, still listening intently to their heated conversation, most of which was undecipherable over the nasal wailing of the Italian diva. We finally reached a spot where the stone had cracked in such a way that the two of us could look on simultaneously if Christine nestled in my arms and held her face close to mine. She did so casually, flashing me her trademark warm, wide grin as she settled comfortably into my arms. For a moment, I had to remind myself to breathe; such close contact nearly had me passed out on the cold, hard floor. I basked in the warmth of her body, which fit so neatly against mine it was if we were two puzzle pieces, intended to meld as we did now.

The moment was promptly spoiled as Carlotta threw another glass item (a vase this time) at the two stammering managers, who dodged the flying item instinctively. The vase smashed into hundreds of pieces as it collided forcefully with the corresponding wall, and the diva collapsed dramatically into a plush pink armchair, clasping her forehead with one hand.

"Please, signora!" Andre sputtered, offering her an elaborate bouquet of brightly colored flowers, which she slapped away irritably. _Think of your muse…_

_And of the cues 'round the theatre!_ Firmin piped in, lowering a box of expensive imported chocolates for the diva to inspect. She eyed these a bit more keenly before remembering herself and letting out a distressed sob; with a sharp wave of her hand she turned these down, too. The managers, however, were not deterred; they ducked in and out of the adjoining hallway with one bribe after another, droning on in those horrid voices (laughably, they went so far as to attempt to harmonize, at which point Christine and I exchanged exasperated glances).

_Can you deny us the triumph in store?_

_Sing prima donna once more!_

My breathing came in hard, quick gasps, and my blood began to race hotly through my veins. Christine's posture loosened a bit, and she leaned back into my arms, slumped in defeat.

"It was a good try, _mon ange_," she whispered. I sucked in a deep breath of air, my heart hammering in my chest. A worried expression settled on Christine's beautiful face, and she cupped my left cheek gently. "Perhaps next time…"

I shook my head fervently, my eyes stinging viciously as I refused to blink. "No… no." I finally swallowed my pride, if not my rage, and glanced down at her. "You will sing the part of the Countess, Christine. I promise you"

She swallowed, the muscles in her throat tensing visibly. "You also promised me you wouldn't hurt her," she breathed.

My gaze snapped venomously to Carlotta, and I narrowed my eyes. Why, _why_ had I made that promise to her? But I could not take it back now, and I would never betray her trust. "That I did," I admitted sullenly. She stared at me for a moment more, then, apparently having assured herself that I would keep my promise (which, as a matter of fact, I did), turned her focus back on the Italian diva.

Predictably, Carlotta seemed to be enjoying all of the attention, and did a horrible job of hiding it (she was not, as I have mentioned before, the best of actresses; even the worst chorus girl could outshine Carlotta's over-exaggerated style). Through her mascara-stained tears her eyes glinted greedily at all of the managers' gifts; she finally found two which she simply could not refuse: a hand muffler made from dyed mink fur, and a brand new, ribbon clad teacup poodle. Eventually, to my utter horror, she, too, began to sing (screech!) along with her managers.

_Prima donna, your song shall live again!_

_You took a snub, but there's a public who needs you._

I snorted, and Christine began to shake with silent laughter. I smiled despite myself; at the very least, I could entertain her in these painful moments.

_Think of your public!_ Andre and Firmin reiterated. I leaned forward, my lips grazing a lock of hair tucked behind Christine's ear. "What is this public they keep talking about?" I whispered. Christine began to laugh harder, trying very hard to remain silent. She clamped her right hand over her mouth as I continued. "Everyone in the queue this morning was calling for the magnificent Miss Daaé, not Carlotta." Her chest rose and fell in a content sigh, and she settled back cheerfully into my embrace, her head falling back on my shoulder.

_Those who hear your voice liken you to an angel! _Firmin and Andre cooed, dropping to their knees in front of the diva. Christine and I looked quickly at one another, then burst into full-out laughter (quietly, of course). I fell back on my elbows, and Christine collapsed on my chest, her entire body shaking violently with suppressed giggles. Never had I overheard a worse pun in my life, intentional or not!

Carlotta continued her vain solo, now completely oblivious to the serenading managers.

_Think of their cries of undying support_

_Follow where your limelight leads you…_

Concurrently, the two managers exchanged exasperated glances. They suddenly realized the price they would pay for bringing Carlotta back to the stage; she now held absolute power over them, or so they thought. Little did they know that I held the strings to all of them, but soon they would learn better; for even as I sat watching them, I began to scheme and plot for the abrupt end to Carlotta's career. Christine was perfectly still and silent in my arms; a distinct air of disappointment had suddenly re-enveloped her, and it left my heart aching for my sweet, worthy student. She doubted my ability to place her back in the leading role, perhaps, but I didn't believe that to be the problem; the managers had turned her down after she far outshone Carlotta as the lead in Hannibal, and they knew it. After such a let-down, she most definitely had the right to be frustrated and morose, but I took a more direct approach; I wanted justice and revenge and I wanted it immediately. Even I had to wonder at the managers' motives; I didn't doubt the extent of their stupidity for a moment, but even two deaf, blind men could tell which of the two women was more deserving of the role of Countess.

_We get our opera;_

_She gets her limelight!_

The two managers bumped shoulders, seemingly very pleased with themselves. Carlotta began to sing a tuneless, off-key assortment of painfully high notes, and suddenly their smug expressions dissolved once more into exasperation.

_Leading ladies are a trial!_ They agreed. I rubbed Christine's forearm defensively, a frown etched into my features. She offered me a nonchalant shrug and a forced smile, but the sparkle had disappeared from her eyes. I fingered my Punjab lasso thoughtfully, eyeing the managers with a rapidly increasing hatred, but Christine's warm fingers covered mine and I ceased my murderous thoughts for the moment. Their fates would be decided another day; somehow I could not bring myself to kill in front of her.

_Prima donna, your song shall never die!_

_You'll sing again, and to unending ovation!_

It seemed that as Carlotta's vanity swelled, her voice became progressively more insufferable; one piercing note bled into another until I was sure my ears would start to bleed in protest.

_Tears… oaths…_

_Lunatic demands are regular occurrences._

I glared venomously at the two managers, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling in complete abhorrence, my breathing coming in hisses through my bared, clenched teeth. How _dare_ they insult me in front of Christine! First I was _puerile_, and now on top of that I was a _lunatic_? Oh, they would pay very dearly for this… very dearly, indeed…

_Think how you'll shine in that final encore_

_Sing, prima donna, once more!_

Gritting my teeth, I lowered my eyes from the horrendous sight. My only consolation was the thoughts of vengeance that ran rampant through my mind. There were so many ideas… so many excellent ways to exact revenge upon the empty-headed diva and the two raving lunatics who had the nerve to cast her. In all fairness, I had warned them several times that a disaster beyond their imaginations _would_ occur should they choose to disobey my commands, and disobey them they had. Now it was time for me to uphold my end of the bargain.

"I've had quite enough of this," I whispered somberly into Christine's ear, and she nodded with a sigh. Slowly I untangled myself from her embrace, but my flesh howled in protest as I did so; the stale air was frigid against the places which her skin had warmed so efficiently. She, too, gave a shiver as we rose to our feet, rubbing her hands unconsciously over her bare upper arms. I wrapped one of my arms around her shoulders as a compromise, and together we began to walk back towards the hidden entrance in a considerably more dismal mood than the one in which we had come. Firmin and Andre's voices floated tauntingly after us; I ignored them at first, until one snippet caught my attention forcefully:

_Who'd believe a diva, happy to relieve_

_A chorus girl who's gone and slept with the patrone?_

_Raoul and the soubrette, entwined in love's duet_

_Although he may demur, he must have been with her…_

I halted in my tracks, my spine going perfectly rigid. Christine, too, tensed in my arms, then looked quickly up at me with wide eyes.

"It's not true!" she squeaked. "Angel, you know it isn't true…"

There it was; my temper began to flare uncontrollably within me, like a volcano as the magma came bubbling towards the surface. Now… now they had gone too far…

I wheeled around, my cape whirling out behind me, and began to race down the hallway. Christine followed after me, just barely remembering to keep her voice down.

"No… Angel, no!" She grabbed me tightly around the waist, laying her head against my neck and digging her heels into the ground. Reluctantly, I stopped, taking deep breaths in an unsuccessful attempt to calm myself.

"I'll kill them both!" I hissed, my eyes wild with hate. Christine shook her head fervently, her fingers snaking up to caress my neck and cheek.

"Please," she begged, her voice wavering softly. "Please, Angel… let's go back. I will sing for you. We must practice for the performance tonight. Come." Her hand found its way into my own, and I felt my resolve melting away. I stood firmly for a moment, my fists clenched, before slumping in defeat, allowing myself to be led by my gentle Christine back through the innumerable trap doors and hidden passageways to the glorious seclusion of my private lair.

With Christine by my side, singing sweet songs of laughter and love, all morbid thoughts dissolved rapidly in her radiant light, and I forgot the revolting accusations of the managers and the putrid screeching of the Italian diva. As my beautiful angel sang to me, I was suddenly struck with inspiration, as I so often was in her presence. With a gentle smile, I took up a quill and paper, and scribbled down a brief collection of notes and lyrics. Christine leaned forward curiously, eyeing the paper with a warm smile. It read, quite simply:

_No thoughts within her head, but thoughts of joy; _

_No dreams within her heart, but dreams of love! _

Christine hummed the tune pensively, and her smile widened. "I love it. What is it for?"

I returned the smile mysteriously, tucking the paper into a folder atop my organ. "A surprise, for another day." I placed my fingers over the keys, and began to play. "Now, let's try that aria again…"

_A/N: More responses to you lovely, lovely people: _

**_Venus725_**_: Haha! Well, you are! And no, there is nothing better than having your writing complimented, though I'm glad you like my little "respond to the reviews" idea. I live for reviews. Kind of sad, actually… lol… _

**_Hriviel_**_: Ah, you spoke too soon, my dear. -cackles evilly- Our Erik will have his revenge, fear not… I had Christine go with him for a reason, otherwise you're right; the Opera would have been missing a chandelier and two managers before you could say "Phantom!" _

**_Sakume_**_: I adore you. -hugs back- LOL. My ego's about the size of Texas thanks to you. I'm glad I can be an inspiration, but really, I don't get it… I really don't… -blushes- _

**_Inkie pinkie_**_: Giggle fits ARE fun! And really, there aren't enough giggle fits in Phantom; I had to tie it in there somewhere. I'll get that website name to you ASAP… it's on my favorites list downstairs, and if Mom catches me still awake, I'm a dead woman, and no more story… -cringes- _

**_Haizea_**_: Thank you! Planning on it! ;) _


	13. Epiphany of the Opera Ghost

_A/N: Whew! I was up until one in the morning last night trying to wrap this up, but no such luck. Forgive the slight cheesiness of this first little part… LOL… it's VERY cheesy, but you guys said you like fluff, so… _

_Disclaimer: My pay for this story comes in the form of reviews (HINT, HINT!) and writing experience. Not making a blasted cent of this story, and I own absolutely nothing. Except Erik. And Raoul. Sorry, girls; they're mine. You can't have them! ;) That's how this story SHOULD end: Nade gets them both and Christine can go off and marry some random fan guy who thinks she's hot. LOL!_

She held out the last note, allowing it to waver elegantly before swallowing the sound as I had explicitly instructed. I played the last few chords on the organ out of habit while Christine waited patiently for the usual onslaught of constructive criticism. My deep affection for her did not, by any means, alter the severity of her instruction— quite the opposite, really. I knew her full potential better than even she did, and never hesitated to tell her when she was not reaching it. And in return, Christine accepted the feedback graciously, taking each denigration and compliment to stride.

She swallowed hard in anticipation as I turned very slowly on my organ bench to look at her directly. Her eyes swam with uncertainty and disappointment at my unfaltering stare.

"Was I truly that horrible?" she asked quietly.

I sighed, breaking eye contact to stare at my lap. "My dear," I began slowly, "That was, without a doubt, the best performance you've ever given." Gradually I brought my eyes up to meet hers again. "Your pitch was perfect, your voice smooth, your breathing regulated, exactly as I asked of you." Her features lifted in an incredulous smile. I returned the expression gently, then turned back to my organ. "You are, without a doubt, the best singer I've ever heard, Christine Daaé, and I have lived in this Opera House for many years." I closed my eyes, tilting my head back slightly as music poured from my fingertips. "I do not tell you often enough, but I am honored to be your teacher."

Her fingers came to rest softly on my shoulder. "And I am honored to be your pupil, _mon ange_." Suddenly, I felt something warm and gentle and moist brush my left cheek. My heart missed a beat, and a wave of warm energy coursed through my body. Had she just…?

I turned to look at her, my mouth hanging open in disbelief, but Christine had turned away from me to face the water. "I should go," she said without looking at me. "Madame Giry will have my head if I miss another rehearsal."

My mouth opened and closed wordlessly a few times before I gathered the strength to form a comprehensible sentence. "O-Of course." Somehow, I managed to close my mouth and organize my trembling muscles enough to propel myself to my feet. I swung my cloak over my shoulders with a practiced twirl and followed Christine to the boat. We traveled in a silence that lingered somewhere between awkward and understanding, neither of us attempting to make eye contact. I studied the ripples that my oar created in the murky water, my mind wandering over the plans for that night. A small smile played at the corners of my lips as I pictured La Carlotta, her face going pale in horror as the audience burst into laughter…

My musings were cut short as the boat hit the opposite shore. Christine climbed gracefully onto the cement platform, suddenly very interested in the seam of her dress. She fingered it gently, looking up at me for a fleeting moment before turning to walk up the incline.

"Goodbye," she said breathlessly over her shoulder. "Thank you for the lesson…"

"Christine!" I called desperately. She turned quickly to look at me, her eyes flickering with an unidentifiable emotion as they locked with mine. Again, I opened and closed my mouth like a fish out of water. Really, I had nothing to say to her, but watching her retreating back had suddenly filled me with an inexplicable sense of dread. I stared at her in confusion for a moment, and her expression began to mirror mine.

"Yes?"

"I-" I swallowed. "Wanted to wish you luck. Remember, you shall be the star tonight. Do not worry about Carlotta or the managers." I began to break out in a cold sweat. There! That had been a good response! Christine smiled weakly, her head dipping in a quick nod.

"Thank you." If she had purposely avoided my gaze before, now it seemed as if she could not tear it away. She began to ascend the slope, still watching me intently over her shoulder. Her lips curled and relaxed several times in a faint smile before she turned the corner and ducked out of sight.

The moment she did so, I collapsed against the stone wall behind me, bashing the back of my skull against it several times while clutching my brow in humiliation. Somehow, Christine always managed to turn my mind into mush; I was intoxicated and addicted to her, yet had the maddening instinct to recoil whenever she drew near. I was in far over my head, flailing desperately in those last moments of struggle before going down for good.

A sigh, heavy with sorrow and disgrace, heaved in my chest and escaped in a deep gust of air. I closed my eyes, rubbing my hand over my face.

"Brilliant," I muttered. "Just brilliant."

"Get a hold of yourself, man," a female voice, tinged with amusement, said as a cold hand gripped my arm firmly. On impulse, I snatched the woman's wrist and slammed it up against the wall. The Punjab was in my hand a moment later, but as I moved to slip it over my prisoner's head, a sharp "Erik!" snapped me back to my senses.

Madame Giry's cold blue eyes stared irritably up at me through the darkness. I released my crushing grip on her hand, retreating a few steps in shock.

"What are you doing down here?" I demanded furiously, pacing in front of her, my eyes boring into hers. "I told you never to—"

Giry rubbed her wrist, glaring tetchily at me behind her furrowed brow. "Temper, _temper_, Monsieur Opera Ghost!" She sighed. "I assumed you had more commands for me concerning the performance tonight." Her tone was bitterly sardonic, much more than should have been allotted for my little outburst. Something else was bothering her.

"I would have searched you out," I growled. "I don't want you wandering down here of your own accord… someone could have followed you."

"But they couldn't follow Miss Daaé, I suppose?" she demanded, her temper rising.

"That's none of your concern," I snapped. For a moment, we simply glared at one another, neither willing to back down. It was Giry who finally averted her gaze, her fingers flexing in a sort of nervous twitch as she, too, began to pace the small area between myself and the wall like a caged predator.

I sighed deeply, attempting to alleviate my gaze a bit. "Why are you really here, Céline?" I asked as gently as my tense vocal chords would allow.

Her eyes snapped to mine momentarily before returning to her hands. She stopped pacing, standing perfectly still and stiff as she explained. "Christine is like a daughter to me, Erik," she said quietly. A sigh escaped her lips as her voice rose with desperation. "And I know we promised to stay out of one another's private affairs, but I worry about your intentions with her."

"My intentions?"

Her frown deepened. "I'm aware that she is a beautiful young woman, Erik. I am not blind. And lately, I believe…" She hesitated, wetting her lips. "I believe that both of you have come to view each other as more than just teacher and pupil… more than just friends…"

I took a step closer to her. "What are you suggesting, Madame?"

Her eyes darted quickly to mine, and hardened stubbornly. "All of the implications are there, Erik. You returned her this morning clad in little more than a corset. What am I supposed to believe?"

"How dare you?" I growled, moving my face close to hers in what I hoped to be an intimidating gesture. "The nerve of you, to burst down into my home and accuse me of-"

"Do you love her?" she challenged unflinchingly. I faltered, taking a step back as a surge of immensely powerful, equally adamant emotions washed over me. For the umpteenth time that afternoon, I searched unsuccessfully for words. Giry nodded, lowering her eyes almost sadly. "I was afraid this might happen," she whispered.

"We haven't _done_ anything!" I managed finally. Remarkably, with one simple question she had demoted me from the dominant aggressor to the status and tone of a school boy explaining to his teacher why he did not have the previous night's assignment.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said curtly. Her eyes affirmed what she said; they lost some of their hard edge, and took on an almost sympathetic stance. Almost. She tilted her chin slightly, her eyebrows arched as she sighed through her nose. "So. What are your instructions for tonight? I'm sure you have an intricate plan of some sort…"

Despite my very best efforts, a smile tugged at my lips, and I shook my head. "You're not very good at changing the subject, Madame."

She shrugged, the corners of her eyes crinkling in amusement. "I never claimed to be."

We sighed simultaneously, then laughed softly. I placed my hand on her arm. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Is your wrist alright?" She shrugged again, all anger gone from her gaze, though her defensive posture did not change.

"It hurts enough to be worth another box of those imported chocolates," she hinted. "Meg loves them."

My smile widened. "As you wish. However, if that irksome vicomte takes my box again…"

"You'll leave it in the morning," she finished. "Now what is it you need me to do tonight?"

I ran my fingers through my hair pensively. "The third right wing must be empty during the end of the first act. Find a distraction of some sort."

She nodded. "Anything else?"

I thought for a moment. "Well, if you could talk the managers into casting her from the beginning as you did with _Hannibal_, we could avoid this whole mess…"

Giry shook her head. "I've tried. They won't be swayed. And remember, I can only side with you so many times before they become suspicious…" I nodded my understanding with an exasperated sigh, and turned back to my boat.

"They bring this upon themselves," I said coldly, picking up the pole.

Madame Giry's eyes followed me as I began to paddle away. "What exactly is it you're planning, Monsieur Opera Ghost?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

I turned over my shoulder to smile mischievously at her. "A disaster beyond their imaginations," I reiterated.

She shook her head, tossing her thick, gray-streaked braid over her shoulder with a mocking chuckle. "For a creative genius, you are understatedly a creature of habit, Monsieur Erik. One of these days you'll need to think up new threats; the 'disaster beyond your imagination' line grows tiring after awhile."

My laughter followed her up the hidden stairwell, echoing off the coldly familiar stone walls of my vast domain. As I reached my home once again, I stared around the large, empty cavern, viewing it as I never had before. It was so cold… so dark, and horribly lonely without Christine…

_Do you love her?_

I shuddered, squeezing my eyes shut. Slowly, I lowered myself onto my organ bench, removed my mask, and sweet, unearthly music began to fill the emptiness of my aching soul.

"Yes," I finally whispered to no one. And in the mirror, I watched as tears of joy and relief flooded a smiling monster's eyes.

_A/N: -gets ready to pound stupid e-mail- Wow! Reviews! Have I mentioned that I love you guys? Cause I do; I really, REALLY do… and I didn't receive notices of about half of these reviews, so when I went to go look them up to respond, I was floored. Thank you so much! –big hugs- _

_NEW READERS! -waves ecstatically- Hiya! So here's the deal; I started responding to you lovely people because the theory is you'll keep reviewing:) _

_Inkie pinkie: Well, I sorta tied in a line about that… I actually haven't seen the stage performance -dodges flying objects from purists- but I'd VERY much like to. _

_Hriviel: Yes, they will get a nasty little surprise in the next chappie. Lol. Thanks; I thought it would be sweet to add in a little E/C fluff to lighten up the mood; it started to get a bit angsty towards the end. Glad you liked it. :)_

_Pickledishkiller: LOL, yes he does. Don't mess with Chrissy, dudes! She's got friends in high places -glances up at rafters-_

_Sakume: Have I mentioned that I adore you? -hugs and cookies- I can't stop smiling or blushing. Thank you so much!_

_GreenGirl13: A new reviewer! Hi! Thank you; I'm very glad you like it. Never seen another Erik POV fic? Look around a bit, and you'll find them. Some are much better than this humble little piece, might I add. ;) _

_BlazeoftheInferno: Another new reviewer! Wow! I'm so spoiled. ;) Thank you so much—that was probably the most detailed review yet, style-analysis-wise. I'm truly flattered. Cookie?_

_Omega Devin: ANOTHER new reviewer? -faints- I'm… stunned… Thank you! That was the point of the short fluffy section; don't we all love that warm, fuzzy feeling? Glad my writing could evoke the right emotions. :) As for what will happen later on... –shudders- _

_Venus725: -appreciates you logging in for me very much- I'm very glad you like my Erik characterization; I was very hesitant to start this story, as I'm a female, so naturally I write from the female perspective best. This is my first story of any fandom writing from a male's point of view, let alone someone like ERIK, so I'm very glad it's being received well. _

_Orphelia-Rose: -stares blankly in absolute shock- This… can't be happening! SO MANY NEW REVIEWERS! I resist offering you cyber hugs merely to keep you from running away screaming… LOL. Yes, I'm adding a whole bunch of little chapters in between to try and give Erik and Christine some happy, fluffy moments before all the angst and tragedy begin. -sighs- Poor them!_

_Thank you again, ALL OF YOU, for reviewing! I'll update as soon as I finish that pesky English essay… -sigh- _


	14. A Promise Fulfilled

_A/N: OMG! -gasp- A quick update! Just like old times… lol… Please note that I was extremely sick while writing this chapter; last night, when I wrote the bulk of it, I had a fever of 101, and today, when I wrote the last bit, I was thankfully down to 101.3. However, I got to take the day off of school and actually WRITE (my mom will KILL me if she finds out that I wasn't sleeping…) a lengthy chapter (almost as long as "Notes!"). Please forgive spelling errors and the like… I do apologize beforehand. _

_OH! Yes, and before I jump into this loverly little chapter (oh, don't be a smart alec; I spelled that wrong on purpose! LOL), I wanted to mention that I have ABSOLUTELY no life, and spend far too much of it on AIM. If you guys just happen to be on and want to chat up a storm about PotO, the weather, how much you loathe my phanphic (or not!), how FREAKING HOT Gerard Butler is… feel free! I'd love to hear from you! My screen name's nadenaberrie. Original, huh? ;) _

_Disclaimer: -whines- They're not MINE, okay? Stupid Gaston… stupid Andy… (yes, we're on a first-name basis. LOL!) _

The chorus girls dashed single-file down the winding iron staircase, whispering excitedly amongst themselves as their wide eyes sparkled in anticipation. At the bottom of the stairs each girl quickly dusted her pointe shoes before dashing off to join Madame Giry along the warm-up bar. I hid in the shadows directly behind the stairs, my eyes flickering expectantly from one chorus girl to another. Finally, little Meg Giry galloped breathlessly down the stairs, turning her flushed face upwards to watch as Christine followed a few steps behind in a deliberately slower pace.

"Come _on_, Christine! Maman will murder us if we're late again!"

Christine halted, pursing her lips. "Oh! Silly me; I forgot part of my costume in my dressing room." Her voice was elevated just a bit more than usual, and her large brown eyes scanned the shadows subtly; she sensed my presence. "Go on, Meg. Tell your mother I will be there in a moment."

Little Meg uttered a dramatic sigh, grasping the metal rail as she slapped the toes of her shoes in the chalky substance. "It'll be your head, then, Chris; don't blame me!" With a quick roll of her eyes she scurried off after the rest of her peers. Christine watched her friend go, remaining perfectly still. Slowly, I ducked out from my hiding place and whispered her name.

"I hear you, angel," she breathed, her eyes darting across the room. "Where are you?"

I reached up a hand to brush her ankle, and she jumped a little in surprise, her hand flying to her heart. I beckoned her down to me, and she complied with a shuddering sigh of relief. She followed me into the shadows, and I offered her a comforting smile as she came to stand in front of me.

"Do not be nervous, Christine," I soothed, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You are not the diva that should be concerned tonight. Be ready to take up the role of countess on a moment's notice. You have been well prepared for tonight's performance. I know you will exceed even my own expectations."

She nodded her head, drawing in a deep, trembling breath. "But you will not harm Carlotta," she repeated without meeting my eyes. "You promised…"

"I will not harm her," I assured her. "She will live to see another day, if not another performance." I tilted her chin up gently with my finger and looked deeply into her eyes. "Your voice rivals the angels in heaven, child. Sing as you did this afternoon, and soon all of Paris will know it as I do."

She smiled gratefully, her tense features visibly relaxing. "Thank you, _mon ange_."

"Meg! What happened to Miss Daaé?" Madame Giry's slightly panicked voice demanded from across the room, breaking the tender moment.

Christine and I exchanged terse nods, and she darted out from our hiding place while I slipped through a hidden door in the wall behind us. "Right here, Madame…"

I did not stay to listen to Giry rebuke my beloved student; somehow it irked me to no end to hear others criticize Christine, though I found no discomfort in doing so myself. I took sole responsibility for her performances, good or bad (though there were very few of the latter), and took extreme offense when others, even my oldest friend, attempted to take charge of her progress. Hence, as I heard Madame Giry's voice elevate in a scornful tone, I slipped away from the scene, trying to focus on my task ahead.

I wound through the hidden tunnels briskly, my purpose set. As I reached a well-concealed fire escape at the end of a little-used rafter, my hand moved habitually to the smooth ivory that concealed the right side of my face. Once sure that my mask was properly in place, I lifted the hood of my cloak over my head, slinking back into the folds of the black fabric. With a deep, calming breath, I opened the heavy wooden door and stepped silently onto the small iron grate just outside. The brisk autumn air was both refreshing and a bit shocking to my unconditioned lungs; I did not often venture outside of the Opera House, except on business of utmost importance.

And Christine's rise to stardom fell easily under that category.

I slipped quietly down the cold iron ladder with the proficiency and speed of a practiced acrobat, my gloved hands and leather-booted feet landing soundlessly on the metal rungs. Upon reaching the bottom of the fire escape I dropped a few meters to the ground, landing in a slight crouch to lessen the impact of the fall. Pulling my cloak tightly around myself, I stooped into the lengthening evening shadows, my eyes dashing anxiously across the vacant alley. My footsteps were light on the slick cobblestones; I burst into a hurried jog, becoming more eager by the moment to leave the bitterly cold world beyond the Opera House and return to the familiar warmth of Christine's arms…

I shook my head. I could not return until my task was complete. Christine was counting on me to put her back in her rightful leading role, and I fully intended to keep my promise.

My speed doubled at the thought of her brilliant smile as the audience called enthusiastically for an encore. Tonight's performance would surely mirror her success in _Hannibal_; I would see to it personally.

Although I had only visited the apothecary once or twice in my life, my feet seemed to recall the way, and I followed them blindly around one darkened corner after another. After what seemed like hours of running through the biting cold, I came to a panting halt outside of a small, run-down hut in the slums of Paris. I eyed the place questioningly for a moment; the dark brick had crumbled over the small entrance, the windows were cracked in several places, and the larger apartment next door was obviously a brothel of some sort. I hesitated; I _had_ promised Christine that I would refrain from killing Carlotta, and I couldn't be sure that any potion from this sordid hut wouldn't do just that. Suddenly, a dreadfully bitter gust of wind blew fiercely through the foreboding alleyway, causing me to shiver violently even with the protection of my cloak. At that same moment, the mistress of the brothel next door stumbled drunkenly out of the front entrance, eyeing me warily before bellowing, "Aye, you look like a man who could use a little escape from the cold! Come on inside; plenty of girls to choose from… satisfaction guaranteed, monsieur!"

I glared at her in a combination of terror and disgust, then ducked quickly into the apothecary's shop, finally convinced that it could not possibly be worse inside than out.

I was wrong.

Inside, the shop was only a few degrees warmer than in the alley, and the entire place reeked of rancid meat and virulent poisons and blood and stale urine. I choked a bit, my hand flying to my nose as a stooped old man with a wild, tangled white mane hobbled out from the back room. He looked me up and down once, his hairy nostrils flaring, before nodding decisively.

"What's your pleasure, messieur? Poison, I suspect, or perhaps a narcotic of sorts… Got it all, messiuer, for the right price…" He wheezed heavily, his beady black eyes radiating a kind of maniacal pleasure as he offered the deadly potions. I swallowed the urge to threaten him for his hasty, crude judgment, deciding to pity him instead for his obvious lack of intelligence.

I crossed my arms over my chest, stretching my spine upwards in a menacing stance. "Neither. I'm looking for something very specific, and you will refrain from uttering any more of your petty comments henceforward, or you shall lose both a customer and your life. Understood?"

The man's wide nostrils flared once again as he nodded.

"Good. I'm looking for a vocal deterrent. Not a poison, mind you… I do not wish to terminate the victim's life, only ruin it."

The pharmacist's eyes narrowed slightly, and he bit his lower lip. "A 'vocal deterrent,' you say, messieur? Temporary or permanent?"

I waved my hand dismissively. "Whichever you are in immediate possession of. I'm in something of a hurry, monsieur."

The apothecary stroked his stubbled chin thoughtfully for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "Ah! I believe I might have just the thing, messieur… wait here, and I'll get it for yeh…"

I nodded coldly, standing perfectly still as the man ducked into the next room. I listened intently as he shuffled through several clanking jars and bottles, all the while mumbling under his breath about the indecencies of some customers. I sighed impatiently, choosing to ignore these select comments merely because I was in desperate need of that potion. Finally, the old man reappeared, clutching a small vial of clear liquid in one hand.

"This, messieur," he said in a diabolical whisper, "Should do the trick. Dump this in yer enemy's drink, and they'll start croakin like a bullfrog in matin' season." I reached a hand out greedily for the bottle, but the apothecary snapped it away quickly. "Ah ah ah!" he clucked. "Money first, then the potion."

I sighed, digging in my pocket for my bag of coins. "How much, then?"

The old man thought for a moment. "Ten thousand francs."

My eyes snapped wildly to his. "You, monsieur, are a criminal! I'll pay five."

"Seven."

I glared at him for a moment, then tossed the coins at him in disgust, snatching the vial from his hands.

"Excellent doin' business with yeh, messieur!" the smiling lunatic raved with a short salute. I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes, turning my back to him with a sweep of my cloak. I ducked quickly into the protective hood of my cloak as I made my way back towards the Opera house, tucking the precious vial deep into my breast pocket.

As I jogged quickly toward the sanctuary of the only home I'd ever known, a satisfied smile crept its way onto my face, and stayed there even as I climbed stealthily through another hidden entrance on the south side of the Opera Populaire. I let out a deep sigh of relief at the sudden warmth that enveloped me upon entering; with any luck, there would be no further need to venture outside the Opera for quite awhile. My eyes adjusted slowly to the change in light as I worked my way by memory through the dim tunnels. Soon enough, I found myself crouched over the same trap door Christine and I had dropped through…

Could it had only have been that morning?

I shook my head. It's true what they say: time flies when you're having fun.

With a quick peek through the trap door to make sure no one occupied the short hallway, I dropped lightly to the floor and crept quickly over to Carlotta's dressing room door. I pressed my ear up against the wood; no one moved about inside, so I slipped into the dressing room quietly. In the far corner of the room sat her large vanity, and atop it were Carlotta's spare bottles of pink throat spray. I smiled diabolically as I tiptoed over to the vanity and snatched one of the bottles, tucking it into my cloak. As I turned to leave, however, the door handle jiggled. My eyes scanned the dark room for a place to hide, and I quickly settled on Carlotta's dresser, praying silently that she had already changed for the performance.

I watched through the crack between the swinging doors as Carlotta's plump, rosy-cheeked assistant, Hannah, waddled into the room, a large dimpled smile etched into her chubby face. She walked right past me, snatching up another of Carlotta's spray bottles before turning on her heel to walk back out the door.

I let out a deep sigh of relief, and after a few moments began to trail her. Luckily, the maid was much too stupid to notice another set of footsteps behind her, and almost all of the occupants of the Opera Populaire were already onstage preparing for the performance. Out of habit, I tried to stick to the shadows and corners as I followed her, but did not worry too much about being caught. Soon everyone in the Opera would be sure to notice my presence, anyway.

By the time Hannah reached the third right wing of the stage, where Carlotta waited impatiently, she was horribly out of breath, but still smiling like the idiot she was. The orchestra had already begun to play the introduction to the first act, and the Italian diva was almost beside herself. I ducked behind one of the large props, watching as she began to reprimand the poor jolly fool.

"My God! When vill I learn to send faster person to get my stuff, eh? You move like snail, 'annah. Come on; spray, spray! Ve don't have all day…" She opened her mouth, and Hannah obligingly sprayed the pink liquid into the back of Carlotta's throat. The diva crinkled her nose and dismissed her maid with a wave of her hand as the first three actors filed onto the stage, accompanied soon after by little Meg Giry.

_They say that this youth has set my Lady's heart aflame!_

_His Lordship sure would die of shock!_

_His Lordship is a laughing-stock!_

_Should he suspect her, God protect her,_

_Shame! Shame! Shame!_

_This faithless Lady's bound for Hades,_

_Shame! Shame! Shame!_

Right on cue, Carlotta strutted out onto the stage, at the same moment as Christine stepped out from the wing opposite us. My eyes locked immediately onto my beautiful student; she was clad in a ridiculous, frilly maid's costume which would have made her look the part of one of Carlotta's poodles had her face not radiated with an insuppressible elegance. My heart surged with pride; she was meant for the stage. Even in her silent role, she acted beautifully, filling her role dutifully until I fulfilled my promise to her.

Which reminded me…

I tore my eyes from Christine to search the surrounding area for Madame Giry. She appeared from behind a curtain a moment later, as if possessing the uncanny ability to read my mind. She tapped Hannah on the shoulder, and whispered something urgently into her ear. The maid looked up at her, surprised, before nodding vigorously and scurrying off towards the opposite side of the stage. Madame Giry waited until she was well out of earshot before clasping her hands loosely in front of her and addressing me directly through the side of her mouth.

"If you're going to fulfill that so-called 'disaster beyond everyone's imagination,'" she whispered mockingly, "Now seems like the perfect opportunity, Monsieur Opera Ghost." Her eyes leapt up to Box Five, which, as I had predicted, was occupied by that damned Vicomte de Chagny. "You may leave my chocolates and salary in the morning." And with a curt dip of her head, she strode slowly in the opposite direction.

Unable to stifle a smile, I merely shook my head. The woman was impossible. But, in this situation, she was also correct. I took advantage of the promised vacancy of the third right wing to produce both the apothecary's vial and Carlotta's throat spray, and dumped the first into the latter. Then, in one quick, deft movement, I swapped the bottle which Hannah had abandoned on a small stool and replaced it with the tainted bottle. The potion bubbled and hissed for a moment before going flat; fortunately, once it settled there appeared to be no difference between the content of the two bottles.

Smiling widely at my clever trick (and truly, this was one of my better ones), I slipped back behind a curtain, up through a trap door, and down the stone passage which created a horseshoe shape around the exterior of the opera. I listened to the Opera with half an ear, rushing through the dark hallway in my impatience to once again lay eyes on my breathtaking Christine.

_My love, I am called to England on affairs of State, _

_And must leave you with your new maid. _

"Though I would happily take the maid with me."

I cringed at Piangi's horribly off-key voice; he'd been drinking again, no doubt. I quickened my pace down the narrow hall, listening in disgust as the audience burst into laughter. Of course— give the elite swine one little morsel of sexual innuendo, and they were bound to find it humorous, no matter how horrible the presenters. And certainly, it did not get any worse than Carlotta and Piangi.

I finally made my way around to the back of the auditorium, and slipped soundlessly through a door that had been seamlessly fashioned into the wall.

Carlotta held her hand up to speak directly to the audience in that notoriously exaggerated style. "The old fool is leaving!" The audience yet again burst into laughter, and I came very close to vomiting down onto their elaborately styled heads. However, Carlotta turned to Christine, and upon looking at her myself, some of my disgust evaporated momentarily.

_Serafimo, away with this pretense!_

_You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's absence!_

Christine leaned in obligingly behind Carlotta's fan, and I could sense, if not see, their eyes locking in mutual hatred before they ducked back out into the open gaze of the audience.

I waited patiently for the opportune moment to interrupt, biding my time. Carlotta broke away from Christine, taking center-stage once more as my beloved student fell back into the scenery and out of the audience's focus. A few more moments… just a few more moments…

_Poor fool, he makes me laugh, _

_Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! (and many more 'ha's to follow in an increasingly higher pitch)_

_Time I tried to get a better better-half!_

_Poor fool, he doesn't know,_

_Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! (yet again, more obnoxiously shrill 'ho's)_

_If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!_

Now, my moment had come. "Did I not instruct," I boomed menacingly, my gaze locked on the vicomte, "that Box Five was to be kept _empty_?" The audience gasped in unison, and some of the chorus girls peeked out from behind the wings to gape at either me or the aforementioned box. To my ceaseless joy, de Chagny's face went deathly pale at the unwanted attention and apparent recollection of that morning's threats.

"He's here," I heard little Meg's voice insist over the excited whispers of the audience. "The Phantom of the Opera!" I stood a little straighter at the title, attempting to look more threatening. Word spread like wildfire throughout the theater, and soon either "Opera Ghost" or "the Phantom of the Opera" was on the tongue of everyone in attendance.

My eyes fixated on Christine. She met my gaze almost fearfully; she did not yet know what my plans to rid the stage of Carlotta consisted of, yet her features held an unmistakable trust in my promise. She knew that it was almost her moment to shine; I saw it register slowly in her eyes.

"It's him," she affirmed in a whisper, her eyes never leaving mine.

Carlotta, searching for someone to take her frustration out on for being interrupted, snapped irritably, "Your part is _silent_, little toad!" Christine's gaze flickered from Carlotta back to me, at first offended and then frightened. Her eyes pleaded with me to refrain from killing Carlotta despite the little outburst, and I inclined my head slightly to assure her that I intended to keep my promise.

Carlotta laughed in a vain attempt to break the disquiet that had settled over the audience. She pranced offstage to the right wing, where Hannah waited, my bottle in hand, to give her what she assumed to be a soothing relief to her dry throat. I barely suppressed a smile as Hannah missed the first few times, succeeding in drenching all of Carlotta's mouth and chin in the contaminated pink liquid before getting it on the diva's tonsils.

"A toad, Madame?" I repeated quietly. "Perhaps it is _you_ who are the toad."

"Maestro, da capo, per favore," Carlotta said too-sweetly to Reyer as she re-entered the stage, a superficial smile plastered on her face. Christine stepped forward hesitantly, eyeing me with a confused frown. I drew in a deep breath, praying silently that the wretched apothecary had not taken me for a fool…

_Serafino, away with this pretense!_

_You cannot speak, but kiss me in my- CROAK!_

Carlotta's eyes bugged in her head as the inhuman sound came from her own mouth. The audience seemed equally surprised, staring in shock for a moment before breaking into uproarious laughter. Christine's lips twitched lightly, and she dared not meet my eyes for fear of bursting into giggles. She was, after all, an actress. Even from my spot high above her, I could see her entire body relax now that she understood my plan.

Reyer stared blankly at the diva, his cheeks flushing, before starting up the orchestra again. Carlotta opened her mouth to sing accordingly, her voice trembling in fear.

_Poor fool, he makes me laugh,_

_Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!_

She then let out a glorious series of belching croaks, her face going as pale as the vicomte's had earlier that evening. Still croaking, as the apothecary had promised, "like a bullfrog in matin' season," Carlotta ran from the stage, calling some unidentifiable name between her well-deserved croaking episodes.

The audience members were beside themselves with laughter. The curtain came crashing shut at the same moment in which I ducked back through the door in the wall, feeling very proud of myself, indeed. I listened intently as Andre and Firmin stumbled all over themselves, finally announcing to the audience that the opera would continue in ten minutes' time, with none other than Christine Daaé in the role of Countess.

I let out a long, heavy sigh of relief at this news. _Finally_, those two blockheads had taken a hint!

I arrived breathlessly backstage once more, and caught Madame Giry by the shoulder, pulling her briefly back into the wing. "I hate to say I told you so," I whispered.

She threw her hands up, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "I know absolutely nothing!" she insisted. I laughed under my breath, releasing her and climbing the nearest rope up into the rafters.

I wasn't until the ballet started below me that I realized I was being followed.

_(To the tune of "Far too many notes for my taste…")_

_What a way to write a phanphic!_

_Spare me these unending trials!_

_Give 'em laughs, give 'em tears,_

_And the crowd still cheers!_

_Re-view please!_

_Tell me if you love it,_

_If you hate it,_

_Just don't fake it;_

_Tell the truth!_

_-beams, very proud of little tune-_

_Alright, okay, on to the responses._

_ChrisPgirl: Another new reviewer! -waves ecstatically- I'm very glad you like it! I must be doing something right if you think Erik's characterization is good. –winks- Thank you!_

_Hriviel: Thank you, my dear! Madame Giry is one of my favorite characters, and I love Erik angst. Very happy you do too; more to come, I promise!_

_WaterGlyph: -counts- WOW! Eight 'please's! Fear not; I couldn't abandon this story now; it's just getting good! –gasps- So… many… new… reviewers! –fever comes back- lol_

_StrangeGirl: Hey, I'm a strange girl too! YEAH! –high five- I LOVE new readers, if that wasn't clear… -happy sigh- And new readers who add me to their favorites are even BETTER! Here, you get a special membership offer! –offers plate of hot, gooey cookies-_

_Countess Alana: Hi again:) I loved the giggle fits too. –sad sigh- Unfortunately, I don't think there will be many more to come… You know what comes next in the story…_

_Sakume: Yes, school is a royal pain in the derriere. If only I could write phanphics for my English class instead of pointless essays on the underlying themes of Beowulf… -sigh- I think we both need cookies! –stuffs one into mouth, offers one to you- Thanks for taking the time to review, dear, as always! IM me sometime! –hugs-_

_Milkywaypnay37: Thank you! I plan on it:)_

_The Lady Quotes: LOL! Yes, Andre and Firmin are MAJOR twits! Ooh! –adds "twits" to list of nouns to use in this phanphic- I won't wear out the "new reviewer" happiness line, but seriously! –squeals excitedly-_

_I LOVE you guys! –hugs- I think I'll be staying home tomorrow too, so who knows? You just might get another update tomorrow! _


	15. Blood and Betrayal

_A/N: A double update! Wow, we really ARE back to the old days. No, actually I just happened to have time to sit on my behind for hours today and write two chapters (thanks so much, by the way, to those of you who commented on me being sick— I feel much better today!) in one sitting. Kudos to the chapter title goes to my secret identical twin, Noelle (you know who you are!); I couldn't think up anything that juicy. Perhaps she will name all of my chappies after this... lol!_

_Ah, yes, and be forewarned that the rating goes up in this chapter for violence. –cringes- I'm not going to bother upping the rating of the entire 'phic, so just know that this one is a little iffy._

_Disclaimer: See the past bagillion disclaimers. –rolls eyes- Honestly! _

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled, a trail of goose bumps winding down my limbs like wildfire. I could feel someone's eyes following me closely, and my blood began to sear in fury.

A growl worked its way up from the depths of my being as I leapt neatly up onto a rafter above me, melding into the shadows of the overhanging scenery. I waited patiently, my face cast in an emotionless expression, for my stalker to stride out onto the rafter below.

Unsurprisingly, it was Joseph Buquet's scarred, balding head that peered out underneath me, turning quickly from left to right. His bloodshot eyes flitted feverishly across the abandoned rafters before he dared to take a step out onto one. With a twirl of my cloak, I turned to leave, uninterested in his petty obsession with finding me. Unfortunately, he either saw or heard me, and followed up in quick pursuit as I wound easily through the hanging ropes, my gloved hands easing my passage through the tangled scenery while Buquet tripped and stumbled, rubbing his palms raw on the thick hemp. One could speak multitudes on the man's persistence, if nothing else; he grunted his way through the trickiest line of ropes, his eyes still burning into the back of my head.

Beneath us, ballerinas in an array of pastel tutus leapt about gracefully to the gentle fluttering of flutes and harps, a stark contrast to the battle for blood that raged above them. For indeed, I had discovered Buquet's laughable intentions; he grasped a glinting dagger in one hand, ready to drive it through my brain, assuming he could catch me, let alone hold his own against my larger, stronger self. The tankard at his belt was stained with whiskey, and he swayed slightly; for a moment, I wondered if perhaps I would have no need to kill him— indeed, he might eventually lose his death grasp on the ropes and topple down onto the stage without any assistance from me. This idea appealed much more to me than reinstating the title of murder upon myself; I had hoped to leave that life behind me, but I did not mind pulling out the infamous Punjab if it meant ridding myself of this single-minded lunatic once and for all. He already knew too much as it was.

However, I still hoped for the first option, and began to lead the drunken fool on a mad dash through the overhanging scenery. I slipped deftly through even the most difficult of obstacles, darting easily across the narrow catwalks while Buquet fumbled for his balance. I made sure that he only saw brief glimpses of me to keep the chase interesting and to assure that he did not have a target at which he could hurl his dagger. Then, suddenly, I disappeared into a shadowed corner, holding perfectly still as Buquet walked right past me. His red-rimmed eyes went wide as he realized that we had now switched roles; he was now the hunted, soon to be the victim. Perhaps, in those last few moments, he remembered his own ghastly stories about the legendary Phantom of the Opera, with taut yellow skin, a gaping black hole that served as a nose, and gleaming eyes the color of fire. Stories of the notorious magical lasso, warnings to keep his hand at the level of his eyes…

He ran for his life.

I followed close behind, hidden in shadow, remaining perfectly calm and composed as he faltered, panted, sweated, and grasped for the ropes that didn't exist. His footsteps fell heavily on the wooden planks, and his wild eyes rolled in terror as he reached the thickest mesh of ropes. This time, he lacked the motive or coordination to make his way through. Paralyzed with fear, he turned on his heel.

I was directly behind him, waiting.

His eyes moved slowly up to meet mine, and upon falling on my mask, he screamed hoarsely, wheeling back around. He made it four or five steps before falling face-first into the tangle of ropes. He struggled uselessly, only succeeding in twining his flailing limbs further in the rigging.

In one short, swift movement, I wrenched the dagger from his hand and pulled the Punjab from my belt. The noose was around his neck before he could utter a strangled cry for help. I held his torso down with my foot as I heaved back on the rope with all of my might. Buquet's eyes bulged, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as his face turned a satisfying shade of crimson, then blue. He gagged and sputtered, his eyes rolling back in his head, and I knew his end was near. As he began to shudder violently, a smile cut its way across my face. I was intoxicated with adrenaline, drunk on power, basking in the pain of the one who had tormented small children with horror stories about the hideous, cold, heartless Opera Ghost...

I fastened the rope to the rafter and kicked Buquet off the edge of the catwalk, watching with a possessed smirk as he dangled over the shrieking ballerinas, the rope quivering as he made one last desperate struggle for life before going limp. The audience members screamed and sobbed and gasped in horror as I sliced the rope with Buquet's dagger, allowing his lifeless corpse to drop heavily onto the stage. For a moment, I merely stood there, staring coldly down at my victim's body. I felt nothing; I was numb to pain or remorse or even triumph. It merely _was_; Joseph Buquet was merely _dead_.

So, with a brief twirl of my cloak, I walked quickly away from the scene with a distinct air of nonchalance, intent only on escaping from the rafters before the police arrived to investigate.

Little did I know that in a few minutes time, I would long for that sense of blind apathy more than anything in the world.

_A/N: Responses to reviews at the end of the next chappie; don't worry, I didn't forget! _


	16. Tears for my Treachery

_A/N: -deep, heavy sigh- Well… you knew it was coming. I tried to be nice about it (-snorts- Yeah right! I'm out to make you cry!) and stick all of the Erik suffering pieces into one chapter, and NO, this does not excuse you from reading and reviewing it! –winks- Just please, PLEASE, and I KNOW this is very hard for some of you, but don't bash Raoul TOO hard; sympathize with poor widdle Erik all you want, fondle him, cuddle him, offer him a cookie (though the last one's already taken care of), but leave Raoul alone. I don't even care if you beat up on Christine, but Raoulie doesn't even think the Phantom EXISTS, let alone that he might be stealing Christine from him._

_Disclaimer: No. Phantom is not mine. THE Phantom is mine –snuggles Erik- but the story is not. Sorry, folks— I know that probably broke some hearts, but we'll get through this together. ;) _

When my mind stopped finally buzzing long enough to form a comprehensible thought, my mind drifted immediately to Christine. It hadn't even occurred to me that I might have ruined her chances at playing the Countess with my little act of violence against the drunken stagehand. Buquet's murder had, in my mind, been an unfortunate but necessary measure taken to preserve my own sacred privacy; the man had come after me with a knife, for God's sake! Had I been thinking instead of responding instinctively (and I will never cease to berate myself for not pausing to consider the consequences of those fateful moments), I would have realized that my beloved, beautiful, radiant Christine would be terrified and aghast and stricken by my brash, adrenaline-spurred actions.

Oh, what a damned, arrogant _fool_ I was!

I suddenly burst into a full-out sprint, dashing madly through the dark, abandoned tunnels, my heart throbbing in my chest. The cries of the audience still echoed from the main auditorium, haunting me no matter how far or how fast I ran.

But all I could think about was reaching Christine. I had to explain… apologize, beg, something, _anything…_

Finally, I heard her voice directly below me. To my utter horror, it was choked with tears, and even worse… she was accompanied by that damned vicomte! I dropped down onto my stomach, peering desperately through a tiny crack in the floorboards. She clutched my signature rose in one hand and de Chagny's wrist in the other, pulling him through the crowds, away from the auditorium. I leapt to my feet again, following along just above their heads.

Raoul glanced back and forth from the auditorium to the hysterical Christine, his brow furrowed in concern.

_Why have you brought me here?_ He demanded. _We must return…_

Christine's eyes were trained on the winding staircase ahead, her brown eyes wide and flooded with tears. _We can't go back there_, she insisted. _He'll kill you…_ I stiffened, closing my eyes painfully. Now even _she_ believed me to be a ruthless killer. _His eyes will find us there… those eyes that burn!_

I felt my chest collapse, my breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. "No," I breathed around the lump that had taken residence in the back of my throat. "No, Christine, you don't understand…"

_Christine, don't say that. Don't even think it._ Now even the vicomte himself sounded petrified, though not of me; he worried for Christine's sanity.

She finally reached the staircase, and began to run up it, tugging relentlessly on Raoul's hand. _If he has to kill a thousand men, the Phantom of the Opera will kill and kill again!_

Hot tears stung the backs of my eyes, but I blinked them away furiously. If I could only reach her… only explain… surely she would listen to her friend, her teacher, her angel…

_Forget this waking nightmare! This Phantom is a fable, believe me! There is no Phantom of the Opera!_ Raoul insisted, oblivious to how preposterous his claim was. I suppose he believed the managers' ridiculous story that Buquet had "accidentally" fallen from the rafters, a noose around his neck, and the rope just so happened to break of its own accord… anything to convince himself that another man did not possess the soul of his beloved (which, even in those moments of ensuing chaos and pain, I did).

_My God, who is this man?_ Christine sobbed, her eyes flashing with anger and hurt and betrayal; soon, my own expression came to mirror hers. _Who hunts to kill? I can't escape from him; I never will!_

My breath hitched in my chest, but I held back my tears. She was confused… simply confused… she needed her angel to comfort and guide her, not the contrary, blubbering rich boy who trailed huffily at her heels.

_My God, who is this man? This mask of death? Whose is this voice you hear with every breath?_ Raoul looked upon Christine with concern etched into his young brow; he did not know what else to do except follow her blindly in a seemingly endless spiral upwards through level after level of the Opera Populaire. He had no business accompanying _my_ student in her time of need, but for my part, I could do nothing but wait; by killing the vicomte, I would only prove Christine's theory, and I could not attempt to console or apologize to her until Raoul left her side. I longed desperately to take the poor child into my arms and sing her to sleep, to rid her of this _waking nightmare_, as the vicomte had so aptly put it. She deserved to know the truth, and the only thing this boy could do was encourage and stir up her fit of rage and despair.

Their voices melded as Christine led him up one final staircase and out onto the open balcony on the roof of the Opera.

_And in this labyrinth, where night is blind,_

_The Phantom of the Opera is here/there_

_Inside my/your mind…_

I shuddered, my blood coming to a boil in rage. My fists clenched, my eyes rolling back into my head as I repeated silently to myself that under no circumstances was I to kill the vicomte in front of Christine…that she could never love the murder of her childhood friend…

Raoul seemed to suddenly realize what he was singing, and whipped around to face Christine. _There is no Phantom of the Opera!_ He insisted again, more gently this time, realizing that Christine's emotional stability was on the borderline. Meanwhile, I ducked silently up through a hole in the base in one of the statues— a gargoyle, as it were. I trembled in the frigid night air, pressing myself up against the statue as Christine began to sing again.

_Raoul, I've been there! To his world of unending night,_

_To a world where the daylight dissolves into darkness,_

_Darkness—_

_Raoul, I've seen him! Can I ever forget that sight?_

_Can I ever escape from that face, so distorted, deformed,_

_It was hardly a face in the darkness,_

_Darkness—_

I felt that same wretched, abhorrent face twist in agony, tears streaming down my face and behind my mask, freezing into little rivulets of ice on my cheeks. I leaned heavily against the statue, my legs giving up their strength. I squeezed my eyes shut painfully as the first few snowflakes fluttered lightly down from the heavens that seemed to take endless joy in my suffering.

And then, suddenly, my angel's voice and song changed entirely, reverting back to the loving, adoring tone I had grown to cherish and worship. It was our lullaby… our sweet, gentle lullaby…

_But his voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound_

_In the night there was music in my mind_

_And through music, my soul began to soar—_

Another stream of tears, this time of hope and pure, unconditional love, trickled down my cheek. No matter what she did or said, I was irreversibly in love with Christine Daaé, and that single truth shattered my heart, for I knew in my soul of souls that she could never fully return that love.

_And I heard as I've never heard before…_

Raoul stepped forward, shaking his head. _What you heard was a dream, and nothing more._ I shook my head in a combination of sadness and disgust; if Christine had to leave me for another man, she could at _least_ have the decency to choose one who didn't dismiss the past ten years as an extended daydream or stretch of her imagination or an unexplainable series of "accidents."

But Christine brushed past him, dismissing his comment as if he wasn't even present, her eyes trained on my rose.

_Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world,_

_Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore…_

I loved her so much my heart physically ached. Had Raoul not interrupted her, had she continued singing, I would have flung myself at her feet and begged for forgiveness, allowed that ignorant fool to drive his blade through my heart so long as Christine promised not to hate me…promised to remember me always as her angel and teacher, not as a murder…

But Raoul _did_ interrupt, in a painful twist of fate that I would never forget.

_Christine, Christine…_ He sang gently, walking slowly towards her as if approaching a spooked horse.

_Christine_, I echoed, my voice trembling, in a half-whisper. At the sound of my voice, her eyes suddenly widened in terror. Her breath came in visibly hitched gasps as her gaze roamed the rooftop restlessly, searching in vain for any sign of me. Was she truly that naïve, after all these years, to believe that she could escape my all-seeing, all-hearing senses within this Opera House? Even on the roof, I prided myself in knowing the goings-on of the Opera Populaire, _especially_ when they involved Christine.

I seethed inwardly as Raoul moved to stand directly behind her, wrapping his filthy arms around her slender shoulders. Christine did not, however, melt into his embrace; she still glanced feverishly into the shadows, searching for any physical sign of my presence. Hoping to divert her attention back to himself, Raoul took her by the hands and led her in a wide, gentle arc across the rooftop to prove that he was not afraid of darkness nor the monster that supposedly inhabited it. I altered my position around the gargoyle to make sure no matter what their angle, they wouldn't spot me.

Suddenly, my rose slipped from Christine's loosening grasp. She did not look back as it fluttered to the ground, its red petals starkly resembling pools of crimson blood against the white snow.

And as if this nightmare needed to be worsened, it suddenly was. Raoul began to _serenade_ her, in a sickeningly sweet, pretty-boy voice to match his looks.

_No more talk of darkness,_

_Forget these wide-eyed fears!_

_I'm here; nothing can harm you._

_My words will warm and calm you._

I shuddered. He was putting thoughts into her head again; who ever said anything about anyone harming her? And the only one who should have been warming and calming sweet, terrified little Christine Daaé was _me_, her teacher and her _angel_!

_Let me be your freedom,_

_Let daylight dry your tears!_

_I'm here, with you, beside you,_

_To guard you and to guide you._

I shook my head, squeezing my eyes firmly shut. She wouldn't buy into it; she couldn't! She knew better… knew I would never hurt her…

Apparently, my confidence in her trust was overzealous. In a moment that shattered the remains of my already broken soul, she responded with her own angelic voice, her betrayal complete.

_Say you love me every waking moment,_

_Turn my head with talk of summertime;_

_Say you need me with you now and always,_

_Promise me that all you say is true—_

_That's all I ask of you_

I could not stop the onslaught of tears that caught in my chest and throat. I doubled over in pain; I wanted to leave that God-forsaken rooftop, slink back into the sacred depths of my lair, alone, away from this sickening display… but it was true what they said: whenever Christine Daaé sang, the Angel of Music was sure to be there, listening. And listen I would, no matter how much it tormented me to do so.

Raoul enveloped her in his embrace, singing into her hair. I closed my eyes, recalling the heavenly scent of those chestnut tresses… the unique smell of rosebuds and sunshine and soap that I loved so dearly…

_Let me be your shelter; _

_Let me be your light!_

_You're safe, no one will find you_

_Your fears are far behind you_

Christine pulled gently out of his arms, walking slowly away from him, her eyes glazed over in painful memories. I could almost see into her mind, pictures of my horrendous face, of me screaming at her, cursing her… of Joseph Buquet, dangling like a worm on a hook while her beautiful eyes went wide in horror…

"Oh, what have I done?" I breathed, burying my head in my hands.

_All I want is freedom, _

_A world with no more night,_

_And you, always beside me,_

_To hold me and to hide me!_

I was sure, in that moment, I would collapse to the snow-dusted ground, writhing in pain, taking my last precious gasps of air before departing this wretched world forever.

"Christine," I begged hoarsely, but she could not hear, and she was too far lost in the charming glint of the vicomte's eyes to pay me any heed even if she could.

_Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime,  
Let me lead you from your solitude_

_Say you need me with you, here, beside you,_

_Anywhere you go let me go, too,_

_Christine, that's all I ask of you!_

He held her lightly from behind, his cheek resting against hers. The position was so painfully familiar; I remembered vividly the night she had so willingly fallen into my own embrace as we shared a different love song… remembered the way her body fit so perfectly against mine as I introduced her gently to the music of the night…

That night seemed an eternity ago as I gazed longingly upon the happy couple.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_

_Say the word and I will follow you…_

The two sang together, their voices melding as ours once had…

_Share each day with me, _

_Each night, each morning…_

Christine glanced down at their hands, which were entwined gently in front of them.

_Say you love me…_

_You know I do_, Raoul replied gently.

"Christine," I sobbed one last time, but the cold, unforgiving winter wind carried my whispered plea far from her impervious ears.

_Love me, that's all I ask of you!_

I turned my head away, unable to look as she brought her lips up to meet his. Shuddering sobs racked my weak, trembling form, cold and alone, as the love of my life offered her mind, heart, body, and life to another man. I looked instead at the rose which she had carelessly discarded in the snow, mesmerized by all it represented.

After an eternity, Christine broke the kiss, and I dared to look up at her as her voice melded with Raoul's one last time.

_Anywhere you go, let me go too!_

_Love me, that's all I ask of you._

I could not tear my eyes away as they kissed for a second time. Each subtle movement of her perfect lips was a dagger of ice, heaved into my heart and twisted for good measure. I clutched to the statue for fear of collapse as Christine broke the kiss again, glancing quickly back at the Opera House.

_I must go— they'll wonder where I am._

_Come with me, Raoul._

He followed her a few steps toward the building, his face set in a content smile. _Christine, I love you_, he sang gently. Christine smiled, moving in for another kiss, thankfully briefer than the previous two. She took his hand, leading him quickly into the Opera.

_Order your fine horses,_

_Be with them at the door!_

Raoul beamed at her, following at her heels. _And soon, you'll be beside me…_

_You'll guard me and you'll guide me!_ Christine's voice finished adoringly before the two lovers disappeared from my sight.

I waited breathlessly for a few moments until I was sure they were truly gone, then stepped out into the open moonlight. I approached the spot where her rose had fallen, and suddenly my legs gave out from underneath me; collapsing to my knees, I began to sob, holding the smooth velvet petals to my lips.

_I gave you my music,_

_Made your song take wing,_

_And now, how you've repaid me,_

_Denied me and betrayed me!_

_He was bound to love you_

_When he heard you sing,_

_Christine…_

My lips would no longer form the words; my heart could no longer stand the pain. I doubled over, clutching the rose as if it would save my fallen soul. Echoes of that fateful love song plagued my broken mind, and I could do nothing but listen and sob out my pain uncontrollably.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime,_

_Say the word and I will follow you._

_Share each day with me, each night, each morning…_

Suddenly my entire body began to tremble violently… not with tears, but unbridled fury.

How _dare_ he try and take Christine from me? ME, the infamous Phantom of the Opera? That loathsome little… _fop_ ((A/N: -sobs- I'm sorry, Raoul! I didn't mean it!) would not have the last laugh if my life depended on it!

No, I would win Christine back. My music…my opera… surely she would return to her Angel if he had the proper materials with which to fight that damned pretty-boy vicomte…

I crushed the rose between my gloved fingertips, watching as the petals crumpled and fell to the ground. Then, suddenly, I lurched to my feet, racing over to the statue on the very farthest corner of the rooftop, overlooking all of Paris. My voice swelled with power, my cloak whipping madly in the wind behind me, as I cried out defiantly to the heavens and earth:

_You will curse the day you did not do_

_All that the Phantom asked of you!_

_A/N: -peeks in, waving meekly- Please don't throw objects at me! Read the disclaimers! I'm not responsible for Erik's suffering, the poor baby! Blame Gaston! Blame Andy! –points fingers accusingly- Have I mentioned lately that I love you guys? –smiles-_

_Venus725: -sigh- Yeah, sorry about that. I don't like to see him suffer either… Glad you liked my last chappies, though:) Thanks for the well-wishes, too! Hot and heavy E/C romance on its way, though; be happy! Rating's going up! Woot woot! _

_Inkie pinkie: Funny is good! I like being funny. :) LOL…glad you liked the lyrics. They were just a fun little spur of the moment thing, but maybe I'll do it again sometime. _

_Sakume: Ooh! Can it be an Erik plushie stuffed animal? I've always wanted one! Parents… meh! Who needs em? I sympathize; mine can be a pain, too. –note to self- Do a review song again! _

_Peggy-Kun: I swear, I'm going to make a happy "I got a new reviewer" dance! Yes, that was one of my favorite chappies… I love doing humor when I can. LOL! And the "bullfrog in matin' season" was another spur of the moment ideas, and it wound up being the tagline type thing for that chappie. Who'da thunk? _

_Sorry I didn't leave much of a gap for review time— I figured you guys would rather have an update or two. Go back and review later, please:) _


	17. A Friend Turned Foe

_A/N: I'm soooooorryyyyyyy! –bursts into sobs- I know I told some people (and you know who you are) that I would have this chapter posted by Sunday morning at the latest. –glances at date- Er… well, only two days late, right? Right? Ahem. Well, lots and LOTS of angst in this chappie… which is a "yay!" for some of you and an "aaargh!" for others. This is just basically a little bit of setup for things to come… a character development chapter, if you will. The action and (-gasp!-) plot will begin in the next chapter. I want to say a special thanks to Noelle, Hriviel, and Shadow Fox, whose help is much appreciated and whose lovely ideas will most definitely show up in chapter eighteen. Until that time, please help yourself to a hearty slab of Erik angst, won't you?_

I tore blindly through the dark tunnels, my heart hammering in my chest as if struggling desperately to burst from its prison and allow the dying shell of its master to finally depart this wretched hell! Sobs ripped viciously at my burning lungs and raw throat as I fled that devastating scene, my vision blurred and warped with tears. The throbbing muscles of my legs screamed for mercy, but I would not break the pounding sprint; I would never stop running from the image of my beloved's tender lips, melding mindlessly with that _damned _vicomte's…

Anyone could have found me that night, a sobbing, broken wretch, running through the secret tunnels of the Opera Populaire like a madman, cursing and crying and threatening each and every inhabitant in a mindless, choked rant.

Fortunately, it was a rather exceptional woman, of endless patience and a cool head, who discovered me that fateful night.

I did not see her in my blind fit of rage and despair, and we each let out muffled yelps as I bowled into her, knocking us both to the ground. I lay there, unable to move as excruciating sobs racked my helpless form, while the woman scrambled out from underneath me. She opened her mouth to scream when her eyes fixated on my mask.

"Erik! What the devil?" Madame Giry hissed. I did not look up, but could sense her hesitate. She knew of Buquet's death, and was reluctant to comfort the flagrant murderer. But, by some pang of maternal instinct or friendship or simple curiosity, she crept forward on her hands and knees, bringing a cool hand to stroke my puffy, tear-drenched cheek. "There, there, calm down… shhh, Erik, you're not doing anyone any good with all of this fussing." Her eyes roamed the empty hallway before settling back on me. "If someone were to hear you…"

"Let them find me," I moaned. "Let them take me away, lock me in a cell, never to lay eyes on this Opera House again!" Another round of hoarse cries was wrenched from my raw throat, and I curled into a ball, burying my face in my hands.

"Erik, get a _hold_ of yourself!" Giry commanded, yanking on my shin firmly to pull me out of my fetal position. I glared at her, and she returned it. "Get up! Stop this childish weeping immediately! My room is directly across the hall." She pointed a bony finger at the doorway opposite us. "Come inside, where we can talk." Her tone left no room for debate, and slowly, I gathered my trembling muscles, allowing her to help me to my feet. By some miracle, we made it across the hallway and into her quarters, where I promptly collapsed into an olive green armchair. She moved about stealthily in the dark, fumbling in her desk for something before a single blaze lit the room. She moved it to an oil lantern in the corner, lighting it quickly before putting out the match with a flick of her wrist. For a moment, she would not look at me; she stared at the flame, her chest rising and falling in a deep sigh.

"Do you have a handkerchief?" she asked me without turning as I began to wipe my eyes on my shirt sleeve.

"I forgot to bring mine," I sniffled miserably, rubbing my palms over my swollen eyes. Giry half-glared at me as she dug into her hip pocket and produced a wrinkled piece of cloth, which was lined with delicate lace and elaborately embroidered with hundreds of perfect little blue stitches. She turned to face me at long last as she tossed the handkerchief into my lap. Her cold eyes studied me as I quickly dipped the cloth behind my mask to wipe at the moist, tender flesh underneath.

"Leave it off," she commanded as I replaced the smooth ivory over my right cheek. My eyes snapped up to hers in a pleading expression, but she would have none of it. "It's ridiculous for you to hide your face while baring your soul. Leave it off."

I stared at her pleadingly for another moment, but her harsh expression did not flicker. With a trembling sigh, I slid my hand over my head obligingly, swiping my mask and wig onto the headrest behind me. The act was so humbling, so anomalous for me, that I felt the barriers within me weaken again, and another sob hitched in my chest.

"Oh, Erik," Giry sighed, her eyes softening. Her tone and expression resembled that of a parent forced to discipline a beloved child. She moved to her desk, lifted the chair in front of it, and placed it directly opposite my own. With a leisurely air, dampened only slightly by pity, she settled herself into it, leaning back comfortably and crossing her legs under her skirt. She tilted her chin upwards to look me directly in the eyes, her expression unreadable. "Now… I want you to tell me everything."

I stared at her blankly for a moment, unsure of what she meant by _everything._ I closed my eyes briefly, trying to collect my thoughts, but a small, trembling voice, alone and afraid in the darkness, flooded my senses. My breath came in shuddering gasps, my fingers clenching as if trying to grasp the memory as my beautiful little Christine's song drifted into silence.

_Where is he? Where is my angel?_

I collapsed then, doubling over as my choked cries once again filled the small room. Madame Giry did not move, but waited patiently for me to recover and explain myself. Lacking the strength or the will to sit up, I hugged my knees to my chest, my eyes still closed, and when the sobs finally dwindled, my trembling voice replaced them.

"She was so small, Céline," I whispered. "She was alone, and afraid, calling out to her father for a promise that could never be granted. Such a beautiful voice… a beautiful child, for that matter. How could I have left her there?" I realized by that point that I was speaking for my own benefit, the words and memories spilling from my mouth of their own accord as Giry listened patiently, her head cocked slightly to the side. I ranted on for a good amount of time (though it mattered very little that night), recalling with vivid detail our lessons together in the chapel, and later in her dressing room… our first physical encounter behind the mirror, and her introduction to the music of the night… the unmasking, and my outburst… the notes, and how the recipients accepted them… our adventure behind Carlotta's dressing room walls… the tender kiss on my cheek… my trip to the apothecary and drugging the diva… interrupting the opera and the trouble that ensued… the struggle in the rafters and Buquet's death… and finally, the whole catastrophic ordeal on the rooftop…

Towards the end of my recollection, I began to choke up a bit, but managed to keep myself from toppling over the line of emotional volatility again. Meanwhile, for those seemingly endless hours in which I poured out my soul to my one last friend in the world, Madame Giry watched me pensively. The only emotion she exhibited the entire time was an ever-deepening crease between her thin eyebrows, and the sunken look that slowly crept its way into her crisp blue eyes. When I suddenly finished my rant with an abrupt sigh, she seemed to snap from a trance, her eyes flickering up and down as she studied my slouched form. Slowly, she let out her breath, pressing her hands together and leaning her forehead against them.

And then, as if the heavens themselves were smirking down at me, the angels amusing themselves with my torture, that dreadful night went from bad to worse.

The door flew open suddenly, and both Giry and I jumped, letting out startled cries. My hand went automatically up to cover my exposed face, but as my eyes fell upon the intruder, my muscles went limp, my arm falling flaccidly to my side.

"Christine!" I gasped, my breath catching in my chest. The color drained from her cheeks as she laid eyes on my fully exposed, tear-streaked face, her brown eyes widening in horror. She stumbled backwards as if she had been struck, her entire body trembling.

"Angel! Madame Giry, I did not know… I…" Christine's knuckles were white on the doorknob as I jumped to my feet, my fingers itching to grab her in my arms and never release her. She staggered backwards, nearly tripping on the hem of her red cloak as I approached her slowly. Her eyes never left mine as those precious brown orbs filled with tears. "Oh, angel, please…" She gasped as I reached up a hand to cup her jaw lightly, her eyes rolling slightly back into her head. I stepped closer to her, opening my mouth to sing, when Giry suddenly snatched my wrist in a surprisingly strong grasp and wrenched the door handle from Christine's hand. I glared fire at her, but she brushed past me, taking Christine's hand in her own and dragging her down the hallway. I moved to follow them, but Giry gestured for me to stay put, her cold eyes narrowed dangerously. My temper flared and I ignored her, stepping boldly out into the hallway.

"Erik!" she hissed, moving into a protective stance in front of my wide-eyed student. "I need to speak with Mademoiselle Daaé, alone. Would you be so kind as to allow us privacy for a few moments?"

My cheeks burned in humiliation and outrage. I growled viciously in the back of my throat. This woman dared to claim to be my friend, my crying shoulder, my listening ear, and yet when I was moments away from reclaiming my lost love, millimeters from her warm flesh, she shattered my last flailing hopes, ripping Christine from my arms once more.

She had taken sides, then.

With a wide swoop of my cloak, I stormed in the opposite direction. I gritted my teeth as my blood seared through my veins with unbridled rage, my breathing heavy and irregular in my aching chest. Down one trap door, around a stone corner… the silence of the night pressed heavily against my strained eardrums as I listened for any trace of my fallen angel's voice, or that of her abductor.

And finally, after a few moments of silence that lasted an eternity, I heard her voice, a choked whisper in the stifling darkness.

"We are leaving. Tonight."

Madame Giry let out her breath in a long, shuddering exhale. "He will follow you."

There was a pause. "I know." A trembling sigh. "But Raoul thinks we will be safer outside the Opera walls. And I… I can't stay here, Madame. There are too many memories…"

A sharp inhale. "You will come back…" A pause. "Christine?"

The silence was deafening. "I don't know, Madame. I just don't know." A broken sob. "All I know is that I need to escape from this place, escape from _him_…"

My knees gave out underneath me. I collapsed against the stone wall, weeping silently with raw, dry eyes into my gloved hands. _The hands of a murderer…_

"God speed, Christine." A brief smack of lips. "The Opera Populaire will not be the same without you."

The rustle of skirts. "Thank you, Madame." The latch of a door, the creak of a hinge. A pause. "You called him by a name."

A sigh. "Erik. His name is Erik."

"Erik." The word was tentative, pensive… at once terrified and longing. That sound, that name, _my_ name, stopped my heart in my chest, before my obsession and my curse whispered almost inaudibly, "_Mon ange_." Her smooth, angelic voice broke on the last syllable, and the door creaked and clicked as she pulled it shut behind her. Silence ensued: a bitter, broken moment in which neither Giry nor I spoke, but keenly recognized one another's presence.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, but I had already disappeared into the night.

_A/N: Replies time! –happy dance-_

_Hriviel: Ah, you have been so very helpful, I don't know where to start. Thank you for all the lovely ideas, through e-mail etc.; you and Henry have inspired my –still nameless, gotta work on that- muse to get off her derriere and work… a thousand thanks! (OH! And everyone who hasn't read her stories, go do so now! She's excellent!)_

_StrangeGirl: LOL! Was that a good kind of "grawk"? I know… I actually UPDATED, isn't it a miracle? I HATE WRITER'S BLOCK, and mind myself in that predicament far too often… good luck! It will be over soon._

_LoneWolf2005: DUCK! Lol. –has 'don't worry, be happy' stuck in head- woo hoo! Hiya! Yes, the buffet table was a new idea… maybe I'll use it again sometime. LOL. Cookies, however, come standard. –offers one-_

_ChubbyBunny: Awww, cute sn! Thank you very, very much! I can't BELIEVE I'm still getting new reviewers this late in the story, but… thank you! Lol. Don't know what all else to say… I'll update again as soon as humanly possible._

_The Lady Quotes: Thank you. –bows- Well, -ticking off on fingers- Madame Giry is taken care of… now we're down to Raoul and Christine. YAY! I refuse to ever again refer to Raoul as the "f word" (I did it once, and I repeat, it will NOT happen again!), however, I wouldn't be a very good writer if I did an Erik POV (someone asked about this… it means "point of view") without teasing our dear vicomte a bit. _

_Hidracones: YAY! ANOTHER new reviewer! All in one sitting? –stares in shock- WOW. –blushes- I… er… thank you! I looove Madame Giry's character, so I'm glad the readers are liking my portrayal of her. I think the little moment in which Christine gives the mask back was compassionate, and I'm saddened to see that other authors don't share that view. However, again, glad you enjoyed it. _

_AAH! Running out of time! –chases after the bus- Review, please! I love you! _


	18. In Pursuit of Your Deepest Urge

_A/N: I think I should really stop putting deadlines on myself... they're never correct anyways! LOL. Sorry this chapter took so long, guys; real life reared its ugly head and demanded mountains of homework from me. Luckily, I'm now on spring break, so the chapters should be coming about once every other day. -clamps hand over mouth- So much for not setting deadlines for myself... lol!_

_Disclaimer: Ummm... wow, I really don't know how to tell this to you. -takes a deep breath- See, here's the thing: Erik and Raoul are the property of me and my secret evil twin sister, Noelle. You can't have them. I know this is kinda difficult to hear, but Noelle and I have joint custody over them. I called Fridays, she gets Saturdays (oh wait, is itSunday now?). Anyway. Never fearforour beloved Phantom andVicomte; they enjoy their evenings of Greek pizza and Scrabble, and they've stopped with thehomicide attempts. -winks-_

César gave a startled toss of his head and an inquisitive whinny as I burst into his makeshift stall. A piece of hay still clung to his lower lip, and I brushed it away with a deep sigh, moving to stand in front of him.

"Easy, boy," I murmured, bringing a hand up to stroke the tender spot between his ears. His eyelids drooped contentedly, and he blew out his breath, dropping his head to resume his supper. I merely stood there for a moment, my eyes closed, strangely comforted by the gentle munching sound. My hand moved absently over his soft, glossy coat as a thousand thoughts and emotions and memories played through my mind. The muscles around my heart convulsed at the unbidden image of the love-struck vicomte and my frightened student; I shuddered involuntarily, shaking my head to rid myself of the thought. My stinging eyes focused on the magnificent creature which ate contentedly before me. A bitter smile twisted my lips as I patted his neck. "Eat up, old friend. It will be a long night for the both of us."

It was with reluctance that I left César's warm, strangely comforting stall, walking the dark, empty tunnels in solitude once again. My steps were quick and light on the damp stone floor; I had finally managed to gain control of my bodily functions, but it took every last fiber of will power not to sprint down to my lair and back up to my horse's side. I worked stealthily in the dark, if only because I longed desperately to escape it for the first time in my life. Loneliness and betrayal clung to me like shadows, but an inhuman pull and pang within me insisted that I stay close to the source of my agony. I could not abandon Christine after all this time; she needed her angel now more than ever, with the haughty vicomte attempting to rip her from all she knew and loved. She was confused and frightened, but her angel would follow and comfort and forgive her, waiting with open, expectant arms for her return.

I packed a single burlap saddle bag with a change of clothes, a velvet coin bag filled with francs, a wedge of aged cheese, a quill and ink, a slab of red wax, my signature skeletal seal, and paper. My mind played over the night's journey, the possible destinations… it would not be difficult to track Christine and her precious vicomte; Raoul would not be so foolish as to tell anyone where he was taking the young soprano, but if Christine's confessions to Madame Giry were true, the boy did not believe that I would follow them beyond the Opera walls. Christine, however, knew better; she would do whatever she could to try and throw me off course. I swore to myself as I half-ran back to César's stall that no matter what, I would follow and find Christine, and see to it that she returned to the Opera Populaire immediately. This business with the vicomte was merely a test to the strength of our relationship, I convinced myself, and if the boy attempted to get in the way of her career again… well…

A smirk worked its way across my face as I lifted César's tack from its trunk beside his stall.

If, indeed, the arrogant Vicomte de Chagny continued to try my patience and make futile attempts to deter Christine from her lessons or the Opera staff from obeying my commands, it would be my unfortunate duty to unfurl the infamous Punjab lasso once more. It would pain me to see Christine suffer the loss of a childhood _friend_, so I hoped for her sake that he would begin to pay heed to my instructions. My tolerance wore thin.

César's ears pricked excitedly at the sight of his tack, and he pawed the stone floor impatiently as I entered his stall. I smiled. "That makes two of us, old boy." I heaved the laden saddle onto his back, cinched it tight, and slipped the bit into his mouth. As I adjusted the throat strap on his bridle, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristled, and I whirled around to look Madame Giry square in the eyes.

"I told you never to-" I growled.

"They're going to Perros," she interrupted quickly, her features twisted in remorse. My fists unclenched slightly as I looked deeply into her eyes. We were silent for a moment.

"Why are you telling me this?"

She hesitated, breaking eye contact to stare at her hands. "I…I don't know." My brows knitted as a film of tears gathered in her eyes. "I worry for her, Erik. She is so young, and the vicomte… the vicomte is only a boy himself." Her eyes flashed up to mine. "Do not harm him, Erik. Bring Christine back, but do not harm that boy."

My eyes narrowed. "You are not in a position to tell me what I should and should not do, Madame." I turned back to my horse, but my conscience would not let me be. I sighed heavily. "Thank you," I said without turning to face her. Her hair rustled slightly as she nodded, and after a moment of hesitation, she turned and walked back into the enveloping darkness. When her distinct footsteps dissolved into silence, I sighed again, pressing my forehead against César's face. He, too, sighed deeply, and I couldn't help but laugh at the timing. Perhaps animals understood more of human emotions than I gave them credit for. Or perhaps I was simply a lonely, deformed, heartbroken wretch who had stooped to the level of commiserating with horses, as no human could possibly understand me. That, too, was a possibility.

I patted the stallion's sleek, muscular neck, pulling the reins over his head. "Perros," I echoed under my breath with a shake of my head. The little coastal town was over three hundred miles from Paris; I could not make the trip on horseback alone. I would ride to Gare Montparnasse, catch the first westbound train, and be there by the next afternoon. With a tiny nod to myself, I leapt aboard my horse, settled myself in the saddle, checked my bags one last time, and kicked my heels gently into his side. César tossed his head and broke into a steady canter; we exited out of Rue Scribe and clattered off into the sleepless city, sticking as much to abandoned alleys and lampless streets as possible. I did not fear Paris' vile nightlife, for who could have been more terrifying than the Opera Ghost himself, and an angered Opera Ghost at that? Fortunately for my hypothetical adversaries, I met no bandits, gang members, or drunken Bohemians (I always despised them) along the road, and reached the train station in the better portion of an hour.

The groom at the station's stable eyed my mask and black garb suspiciously as I rode up, glancing with narrowed eyes from me to my sweating, panting horse. "Will you be needing to board the beast overnight, sir?" he inquired as I dismounted in a single, fluid movement. I glared icily at him for the crude reference to my equine friend before turning to dig into my saddle bag. A moment later I produced a ridiculously large sum of cash and dumped it into the incredulous stable boy's hands.

"That should be enough to board _César_ for the week, I take it." It was not a question. I turned to my horse, patting him with one hand as I unlatched my sack with the other. The stable boy, meanwhile, could do nothing but stare at the money, open-mouthed. I rolled my eyes, shoving César's reins into the groom's hand. "I may return as soon as a fortnight, but be prepared to board him longer if necessary. He needs to be fed twice daily, exercised, groomed, and provided with fresh water. His well-being is now your responsibility. Do you understand?" The boy made a small squeaking sound in the back of his throat, his head bobbing vigorously in agreement. I sighed, patted César's steaming neck one last time, and swept off toward the ticket counter.

The queue was reasonably short for that time of night, but I shrank back within my hood to be safe, carefully avoiding eye contact with any of the other customers while I waited. A small child lay sleeping on the broad shoulder of the man ahead of me, and I studied her tiny, delicate features as the line slowly inched forward. A halo of soft brown curls accented her smooth, pale forehead, chubby cheeks, small pink lips and large eyes with curled brown lashes. The tension in my drumming chest softened a bit in the wake of this small beauty; she reminded me vividly of a young Christine. A tender smile tugged at my lips as I watched her sleep; my heart flooded with peaceful memories of candlelit sonatas, of a dark chapel made warm and comforting by my little Christine's sweet voice.

Lost in those precious memories, I did not notice the man and child depart, and was startled from my reverie with an embarrassing jolt.

"You, Monsieur! Are you going to stand there all night, or do you wish to make a purchase?" the aggravated ticket vendor demanded, tapping his fingers against the countertop impatiently. I blushed severely at the unwanted attention, clearing my throat to rid myself of the lump which seemed to have taken up a permanent residence there. In two long strides I was at the counter, my back turned on the dozens of eyes which now stared at me curiously.

"I need a first class ticket on the next westbound train," I told the vendor quietly, pulling the money pouch from my cloak. "My own car, if it's possible."

The vendor's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Monsieur, anything is possible, but I'm afraid to rent your own compartment, the price would be—"

I dumped the contents of the pouch onto the counter, and the vendor's eyes bulged greedily, darting from the money to me and back again. "Ah… yes, well, ahem—" He shook his head slightly in disbelief, swiping the money quickly off of the counter. "I think I might be able to arrange it for you, Monsieur." He opened a drawer, produced a sheet of paper, and began to scribble something on it. When he was finished, he tucked his quill away and handed the paper to me with a grin. "Excellent doing business with you, good Monsieur. Just hand this to the conductor, and he will show you to your room." I nodded curtly, tucked the note into my pocket with the empty coin purse and the ticket he handed me, and strode briskly toward the platform, avoiding the burning eyes of those still in line.

It was not difficult to spot the conductor, who was clad in a crisp navy uniform and matching cap. I waited for him to finish directing an elderly woman to her proper compartment before tapping him lightly on the shoulder. He turned to me smoothly, offering a polite smile. His eyes, however, betrayed him; they flickered to my mask and narrowed almost imperceptibly before I pressed the note into his hand. The conductor read the scrawl quietly for a moment, glanced at me suspiciously, read some more, and then shrugged with a furrowed brow.

"Compartment A12, Monsieur, six cars down." He gestured down the platform, handing the note back to me. "Our best sleeping car, might I add. I trust you will have a pleasant stay." I dipped my head and hurried quickly down to the designated car. Another boy, also wearing navy blue, asked to see my note, and with a nod from the watchful conductor, produced a ring of keys and unlocked the door.

The car was spacious, and luxuriously decorated with velvet drapes and silken sheets on the queen sized bed, all of a deep crimson color. A small closet-like space stood in the opposite corner, and as the boy left with a polite nod and the click of the key in the lock, I removed my cloak with a sigh and hung it on one of the provided hangers.

"All aboard!" the conductor called as the engines began to sputter and whir and grind beneath the floorboards. I collapsed onto my bed with a deep exhale, rubbing my hand over my exposed face. The down mattress was remarkably soft against my tense, sore muscles, and my eyes suddenly burned under the nearly unbearable burden of my eyelids. It occurred to me that I hadn't slept in over twenty four hours, but the image of Christine and the vicomte lingered on the skirts of my consciousness, threatening nightmares should I dare to fall prey to the temptation of sleep. I shook my head, rising to a sitting position with a loud groan. I needed something to do… something to keep my mind occupied.

A polished maple nightstand was bolted to the floor beside my bed, and the top drawer was open a crack. Curious, I opened it fully, just as the train departed the platform with a lurch. A heavy, leather-bound novel thudded to the front of the drawer, and I lifted it delicately, eyeing the embossed title.

"The Collective Works of Edgar Allan Poe," I read aloud, an eyebrow cocked in vague interest. I decided that poring over a book of prose and poetry was better than musing on Christine's betrayal, and settled onto the comfortable bed with the book laid out across my lap. The yellowed pages were extremely fragile, the ink blotched and smeared in some places, but I found myself drawn into the mesmerizing words of the grim poet, overlooking the faults of the antique collection. One story in particular caught my eye… after poring over _The Raven_ for quite some time, my gaze caught on the smudged title at the top of the next page: _The Masque of the Red Death._ Yes, this Poe fellow was indeed a morose, troubled man… yet somehow, the more I read of his work, the more I found myself empathizing and associating with him. I was enthralled by his description of the dauntless, arrogant Prince of Prospero; the character seemed to fit the exact description of the haughty Vicomte de Chagny himself, and my eyes flashed in diabolical amusement at the story of his demise and the destruction of Poe's world of the elite, so very similar to the one I loathed.

My heart thrilled at the description of the Red Death himself; I brought my face within centimeters of the pages, my eyes dancing excitedly over the black scrawl.

"_In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revelers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in bloodand his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror_."

I shuddered in delight, goose bumps running up the length of my limbs. I brought my knees to my chest to better support the heavy volume, my fingers trembling in anticipation as I flipped to the final page…

"_It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cryand the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpse-like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form._"

I laughed aloud, a maniacal sound that echoed across the small compartment. I could not suppress the grin which had seized my features; perhaps I could learn something from this Poe fellow… perhaps a poet, of all people, had offered me the answer to all of my troubles.

I closed the thick volume reverently, placing it back in the stand and closing the top drawer securely. With a content sigh, I laid back on the bed, my hands clasped behind my head. Thoroughly amusing images flashed through my mind: of the pale, aghast managers, of Raoul with a dagger through his breast, of shrieking, horrified members of the Parisian aristocracy… it was too good a plan to pass up.

Despite the adrenaline coursing steadily through my veins, my eyelids began to grow heavy again, and a yawn worked its way up from the depths of my powerful lungs. With a lazy swipe of my hand, I removed my mask and wig and tossed them haphazardly onto the bedside stand. The velvet curtains were shut, the door to my compartment locked, and I felt no need to worry about intruders. With a deep, relaxing breath, I pulled the covers out from underneath me and nestled into their comforting warmth.

One final image worked its way to the surface of my mind before I gave in to the overwhelming enticement of sleep: Christine, dressed as Aminta, gazing up at me with passion and desire in her smoldering brown eyes… the sole survivor of the epidemic of the Red Death. A song poured forth from her red lips as she advanced towards me:

_When will the blood begin to race? _

_The sleeping bud burst into bloom?_

_When will the flames, at last, consume us?_

I fell asleep smiling that night.

_A/N: Meeeeh... not my best, I must admit. This last bit felt rushed to me... maybe because it was! I wanted to get this chapter up as soon as possible, and I thank you all for your patience._

_Opal Phantom: Yes, alright, I admit it: it's fun to tease Raoul (but he's still a cutie!). Wow, you have the same method of therapy as me! Mine, though, involves an additional cup of coffee, just for good measure. -winks- Yes, too many authors forget the wig; it bugs me. There's even a scene in the movie in which we see him putting on his wig, so it's kind of ridiculous that this fact is ignored so much._

_Strange Girl: LOL, that's okay! Thank you for not being discouraged; every review is precious to me. Isn't angst great? More to come, I promise! Lots and lots of it! I'm glad you got over the dreaded writer's block, but I'm sure it had absolutely nothing to do with me. -winks-_

_Green Girl 13: Aww, thank you:) Don't cry; here, all better! -offers cookies-_

_Orphelia-Rose: I know, I don't like to see him suffer either. -pouts- I tried to lighten the mood a smidgeon in this chapter, because unfortunately it's only going to get worse for our poor Erik from now on. I'm glad the imagery is working; I always worry that I'm not being descriptive enough, or worse, I'm being TOO descriptive, so it's nice to hear that I'm at least doing a decent job._

_sakume: Hi there! Whew! Glad to see you got away from the bomb unscathed. -winks- I'm sorry this update took so long; I'll be much faster with the next few, I promise! Have a cookie while you wait!_

_joanieponytail: OMG... I adore you. -breaks own newbie rule and gives you cyber hugs and cookies- You put me over the 100th review; thank you SO much! Aah! You made up for lost time; you definitely win the title of "Most Enthusiastic and BelovedNew Reviewer"! It's CERTAINLY not as good as the movie, but I must admit, you had me blushing profusely at that comment. Tee hee! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! -huge grin-_


	19. And Waits For Its Prey

_A/N: Tada! I told you I'd be quick with the updates! I wrote the majority of this chapter after midnight, so please forgive any clumsy errors. The next chapter should be up sometime tomorrow or the next day... I debated whether or not I should make it one long chapter, but you can all thank Noelle (my life saver!), because she suggested that you probably would rather have two short updates than have to wait for a longer one. So here ye be; enjoy! _

_Disclaimer: -Noelle walks up-_

_Noelle: I have a note for you monsieurs and mademoiselles _

_Fondest greetings to all of you,_

_I find it is needed to reiterate, that Nade and Noelle have found their loop hole in the legal system, and have joint custody over myself and the f-scratched out too much to be legible Vicomte. We enjoy our days with Scrabble and Clue and are taken very well care of by the girls, which brings me to this point. I have seen these threats made to Nade, you would DARE to say you would punjab her? Have you honestly taken the time to practice using the Punjab? It is not a mere plaything that you can control the moment you hold it. Should I hear of any more of these letters to her, I shall take it upon myself to give you a personal demonstration. My demands are simple, leave MY girls alone, or a disaster beyond your imagination will occur._

_I remain, your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

For the first time in months, I slept peacefully. Perhaps I was too exhausted to dream; perhaps my mind had worked itself into such a fit over the past twenty-four hours that it could not afford to work while the rest of my body rested. At any rate, I did not wake until the train came to a screeching, spitting, grinding halt at the tiny station on the outskirts of Perros-Guirec. The entire steam engine gave a terrific lurch, startling me from my comfortably deep slumber with a jolt. I bolted upright in bed, my hand flying frantically to my unmasked face. My eyes were unaccustomed to the harsh light that permeated the curtains; I merely sat in bed for a moment, trying to get a grasp on my surroundings. When I finally gathered my wits and recalled where I was, I collapsed back onto my soft pillows with a groan, my hand falling limply to the side. Sleep had provided me with a rare, sweet release from the previous week's painful events, and I was in no hurry to return to the world of the living and feeling.

I simply lay there for a moment, debating whether or not to allow myself to drift back into a peaceful sleep and forget the whole ordeal.

_And let the Vicomte win? Are you MAD?_ A voice hissed in the back of my mind. I scowled, groaned loudly, and pulled myself to a sitting position again. Ah, yes. Christine.

I kicked my feet out over the edge of the bed and stretched my tense muscles. At the thought of my beloved, suddenly I was a gushing spring of energy. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I ed my wig and mask, smoothed and arranged them on my head, and grabbed my cloak and burlap sack from the closet. Taking a deep breath, I exited the car and stepped out into the blinding sunlight and the brisk morning air. When my eyes adjusted, I soaked in the breathtaking sight.

A sparkling white field sprawled out before me, tumbling gently for half a mile before reaching a tiny clump of gray houses. Behind the rooftops and furling smoke from the chimneys, the ocean, a miraculous shade of sapphire blue under the pale sky, stretched out as far as the eye could see. Gulls cried overhead, and in the distance the waves thundered softly against the rocky shore. The air smelled of salt and snow and… breakfast?

My stomach grumbled insistently at the aromas wafting over from the station's small café. I frowned slightly; when had I eaten last? Two days? Three? I honestly couldn't recall… I had been so absorbed in Christine and the performances and composition that I truly had lost track of time. Either way, my churning belly now demanded compensation; I followed my nose to the end of the platform and into the small, cozy coffee house.

A portly woman in a flour-dusted apron welcomed me with a warm smile as I scooted silently onto a stool at the counter.

"Good morning to you, Monsieur. What can I get for you?"

I offered a polite smile. "Whatever that tantalizing smell is, Madame. And a cup of your darkest roast, please."

She nodded with a toothy grin, turning to bustle about the kitchen. To my surprise, she began to strike up small talk with me; no one, not even Christine or Madame Giry, was ever able to get past my mysterious appearance long enough to do so.

"So you've just come in on the train from Paris, Monsieur? Do you live there?"

I stared at her blankly for a moment. "Yes, I do."

She smiled, continuing about collecting the dishes for my breakfast. "I have a sister who lives there. Claire Beaumont. She's the baker's wife. Do you know her husband, Monsieur Beaumont? Well, silly me, of course they would have the same last name… but I must say, Jacques is simply the kindest fellow you'll ever meet, Monsieur. Have you met before?"

I couldn't suppress a smile at her simple-minded, cheerful babble. "No, Madame… I'm afraid I don't visit the bakery often."

"Oh, of course, of course!" She smacked her pudgy hand against her broad forehead. "Listen to me going on and on… of course, you Parisian folk have servants to attend to your shopping for you." I opened my mouth to reply, but she continued to chatter away as she loaded a plate with cream-filled pastries and warm biscuits and sugar-dusted muffins. "Tell me, Monsieur, where in Paris do you live? I've been there once… I might know the place if you tell it to me."

I hesitated. "I… live near the Opera Populaire."

Her eyes widened, and she clapped her hands like a young child. "Ooh! Do you enjoy the opera, Monsieur? I absolutely _adore_ it… of course, I don't get to go very often, but I saw the production of _Faust_ last year, and it was to _die_ for!" I nodded merely to appease her as she set the plate of food and a steaming mug of coffee in front of me. I remembered the performance well; it had been a nightmare… the ballet rats were completely out of sync, Carlotta had screeched her way through each act with an increasingly intolerable lack of pitch, Piangi had been suffering the effects of a terrible hangover, Madame Giry had fallen ill with a fever, and Monsieur Lefevre, needless to say, had decided after that night's performance to retire to Australia with all due speed.

I listened with half an ear as the jolly old woman delved into her own painfully naïve critique of the performance, proceeding to stuff my cheeks with the delicious baked goods and slurp down the much-needed coffee between mouthfuls. But suddenly, one snippet of her mindless rant caught my attention:

"You know, Monsieur, rumor has it that the patrone of the Opera is here in Perros at this very moment. My daughter, Ginny, saw him come in last night with a beautiful young woman..."

I nearly choked on the food in my mouth, but managed to swallow it with a minimal amount of sputtering. "The Vicomte de Chagny is here?" I echoed, feigning surprise.

"Yes, that's his name!" The woman beamed. "Handsome fellow… or so he appeared in the paper…"

I allowed this comment to slip in one ear and out the other. "Excellent! I need to… er… speak with him about contracting business… as a matter of fact, it most likely involves the young woman he was seen with yesterday." I leaned forward to stare the woman directly in the eyes. "Do you or your daughter know where they might be staying, Madame?"

"Of course, Monsieur! There's only one inn in town: The Setting Sun. Just down this main road, down near the old churchyard. Big sign out front; you can't miss it."

I shoved the remaining hunk of biscuit into my mouth, downed the rest of my coffee, dropped two francs on the counter, and jumped down from the stool.

"Many thanks, Madame!" I said thickly with a curt bow, darting out the front door. The stark contrast of air temperature was surprisingly refreshing and energizing; I jogged down the packed dirt road, forming a plan in the back of my mind. Soon I came upon the Setting Sun Inn, and it was just as the woman had described. A large wooden sign swung over the front entrance, and on it was painted the name of the inn and a faded, wind-worn picture of a sunset. I stood motionless outside the entrance, panting heavily, as merry dancing music met my ears. A fiddler played a little jig inside, and there was much laughter and the clanking of glasses and… singing. Beautiful singing, in a very familiar voice…

"Christine," I mouthed, my eyes slipping shut. My fists balled at my sides as I attempted to get a hold of myself; it would simply not do to burst through the door, sword raised, strike down the vicomte and whisk my student back to the Opera. No, this was a delicate operation, and would require a deft and steady hand. I sucked in a deep, calming breath, and slowly managed to tear myself away from the sound of her enchanting voice, my feet carrying me away from the front entrance. I made my way around the inn, studying the building's structure with an architect's eye. Wooden frame, adobe walls, approximately half a foot thick… vaulted ceiling, a small crawlspace that served as an attic, a cellar that supported the length of the building. All too easy.

I found the cellar door quickly, covered in a thin layer of silt and dry leaves; it was secured simply with a padlock— no chains to break, no need to disengage hinges. I shook my head with a small smile; had fate, at last, decided to humor me?

I dug into my cloak pocket and produced a single hairpin— Christine's, as it were. I had taken it from her vanity drawer some years ago for just such an occasion, and had found many uses for it since. After years of living within the Opera, I had become a master at picking locks; had I ever a need to rob a bank, tapping into the vaults would be the least of my concerns. Of course, I would have no _need_ to rob a bank, would my managers take a hint and begin to leave my salary…

Within moments, the padlock clicked open. I smirked, tucking it into my pocket and tugging gently on the frozen handles. The door would not budge, but after prodding at the seams and hinges for a few minutes, I gradually eased it open enough to slip through. Trap-Door Lover, indeed.

My eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, my pupils widening like a cat's. The cellar was humongous, but extremely cluttered with wooden crates and broken furniture and barrels of ale. I wove nimbly through the discarded items, careful to avoid the mouse traps which glinted faintly in the light from the open cellar door. The entire floor reeked of mold, mildew and stale whiskey, but I paid the stench no heed; my focus was on Christine's voice, which once again drifted down to me like an angel descending from heaven. My heart ached in longing; my patience and temper wore thin, but somehow I managed to restrain myself from bursting upstairs and ruining everything. I needed to wait until I could catch Christine alone… the vicomte could not be at her side every moment of every day.

Could he?

Suddenly, the fiddle music came to an abrupt halt, and chair legs scraped loudly on the floorboards overhead. Somewhere above, a grandfather clock began to chime… I counted eleven strokes, and nodded. It was Sunday, I remembered, and Christine never missed Mass. Off in the distance, church bells began to ring, and several sets of footsteps shuffled out the front door. I held perfectly still, picking out Christine's distinct stride and immediately noting the confident, heavy footsteps that fell directly beside her. The Vicomte. I would need to recognize his pace later, as well as the rest of the visitors and staff.

I waited until everyone had vacated the premises before climbing back out of the cellar door, shutting it quietly behind me. I crept around to the edge of the inn and peered out at the line of people advancing towards the chapel; a steady stream of people dressed in coats, scarves and bonnets poured out from every corner of the small city, bibles in hand. I rolled my eyes and sighed heavily; I hadn't stepped into a Catholic church since my early childhood, and I had promised myself as a young man never to enter one again. It had been a Catholic, a "man of God" who had beaten me every night of my childhood, dubbed me "the Devil's Child," a Catholic woman who had abandoned her own son to die on a freezing December night.

I shuddered, trying to force the painful memories out of my mind. No, I had absolutely no interest whatsoever in entering a Catholic church again.

But for Christine, I was willing to make an exception.

Closing my eyes, I drew in a deep breath, ducked as far back into my hood as humanly possible, and followed the crowd toward the chapel. No one threw me a second glance; like the woman at the café, they appeared to be accustomed to the sight of strange foreigners. I was grateful for their nonchalance; if the villagers did not notice my presence, news of it would not be likely to reach Christine. I paused outside the door, the last to enter. My heart drummed mercilessly in my chest, and slowly I backed away, shaking my head. My eyes scanned the church frantically; certainly there would be a side door, another less-visible entrance. Perhaps if I was lucky, there would even be a dark, secluded basement or crawlspace to hide in and watch Christine.

As fate would have it, luck was on my side that morning.

_A/N: Responses to you lovely, lovely people (Oh God, I sound like Keira!)_

_Hriviel: LOL, I heart you more! Horses are so unde , and it would have been just cruel to introduce Cesar for "Phantom" and then just rip him out of the story, never to be mentioned again. Thank you SO much for the Poe idea; everyone, I must admit that the brilliant idea of using "The Masque of the Red Death" was ENTIRELY her idea. –bows at your feet-_

_Venus 725: -points to Hriviel- Thank you, but it was her idea! Glad you liked it, though. –cringes- I thought I messed up this chapter and ruined her excellent idea, but apparently it's not as bad as I thought, which is encouraging. :)_

_Joanieponytail: And it's equally nice to start out the day with such a kind review. :) Yes, I didn't want Madame Giry to be too horrible; she's my favorite character. You're very welcome for adding "Masque," but again, I must reiterate that the credit goes to Hriviel. LOL I spend more time doing this story than my actual homework, so I'm glad it appears to be all planned out (it is, actually, so that's a good sign!)._

_Opal Phantom: LOL Yeah it took me until the third time to notice it; no worries. I don't know how I'm going to survive that long either… Wow! Everyone loved the Poe reference; I'm glad! _

_Shadow Fox Forever: You're back! YAY! I know, I know, I was late… real life SUCKS! LOL. Sorry 'bout that. Happy Easter to you too!_

_Sakume: I'm nice? Awww! Thank you! You're extremely nice, too! –hugs and more cookies- WOW, I have a serious, devoted fan! –is honored- Haha, I love you!_

_Alexis Kent: Well, the music is what has us all mesmerized; no worries... as long as you see the movie when it comes out in May, we'll forgive you. LOL! Just kidding. Aww, I'm blushing, but I feel bad; I don't like making people cry, but I suppose that's meant to be a compliment, so thank you! Cookie?_

_Hilary, I know you're reading this, you little cheat! LOL! Get a screen name, ma petite Christine, and drop me a review! Please? Because you love me? –pouty look- _


	20. Ghosts of the Past

_A/N: Happy Easter, everyone! –brightly colored eggs for everyone… AND cookies!- Hope those of you who celebrate had a wonderful holiday, and those who don't… well, same thing, because you get off of work/school. ANYWHO, I think you'll like this chapter. I certainly like it better than the previous two, but then I'm a sucker for mush. Buahaha!_

_Disclaimer: -points to Gaston- This is all him, actually. Andy gets absolutely no credit for this chapter, for once. _

The small window was partially hidden in a tangle of weeds and dead leaves, but the dim light that permeated the thick canopy of clouds overhead glinted dully on the mud-splattered pane, catching my eye. I dropped to one knee, stooped over to study the ridiculously small entrance. I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head and hissing through gritted teeth.

"Oh, the things I do for you, Christine," I sighed. With a soft grunt, I managed to shove the pane open on its rotted wooden frame, and angled my hips sideways, kicking my boots through the open window. Slowly, I eased my legs through, and scooted myself over the slippery mud and weeds and half-melted snow, wriggling my hips to squeeze tightly and rather painfully through the tiny space. Once my lower half was through, my torso and head slipped easily down, and I landed with a quiet thud on a cement floor. My sides burned, my hands were splintered and covered in sludge, and my entire cloak was drenched and filthy, but I was in. Shivering from the cold, I removed my cloak, wiped my hands on the inside of it, and took a good look around the frigid, dark room.

I was in a storage area of some kind… a basement. A large wooden bookcase was pressed against the far wall, along with a broken pew, several faded cushions, stacked music stands, and a small copper crucifix. Along the top of the dusty cross was an inscription in a foreign tongue… Latin, I supposed. I leaned forward to inspect the characters, when suddenly the organ blared to life above me. I staggered back, my hand flying to my pounding heart, glaring upwards in disgust. Just above my head, a man's singing voice began to accompany the organ; the words were again in Latin, of which I knew only the basic phrases… my guilt was somewhat consoled by the fact that even if I had attended the service, the intended meaning would have only been further lost on me.

A chorus of voices echoed the priest's sung prayer dutifully; I strained to try and pick out Christine's voice, but even with a trained ear there were simply too many people.

With a dejected sigh, I collapsed to the floor, my legs crossed in front of me. I rested my cheek in my hand, amusing myself for a while by picking out every fault of the organ player overhead. After a few minutes of this, I lost count of the numerous errors, and wished desperately for something to do. I climbed to my feet and began to pace the small area; something about this chapel made me inexplicably restless, and the recognition of this restlessness only made me more nervous.

Suddenly, in the middle of my zealous pacing episode, my eye caught on the faded, peeling golden letters of a dusty briefcase atop a box of papers. I halted in my tracks.

With trembling fingers and a throbbing heart, I lifted the aged leather case from the box. The pads of my fingertips skirted lightly over the letters, my eyes widening in disbelief.

"Gustave Daaé," I breathed, reading the gold print aloud. My knees nearly gave out beneath me, but I managed to grasp at the bookshelf and lower myself slowly to the floor, the briefcase clutched tightly in my trembling hands. I hesitated, my fingers pausing on the rusted latch, biting my lower lip pensively. I, of all people, understood the sanctity of privacy, but who knew what secrets and useful information this small case could contain? Perhaps there would even be something that I could use to draw Christine back from the vicomte's arms once and for all…

The temptation was too great. Without further pause, I flipped the latch open.

At the very top of the briefcase was a letter, dated in April ten years earlier.

_My Dear Father Gregory,_

_It is with a heavy heart that I send you these items, belonging to the late Gustave Daaé, who went to be with the Lord late Tuesday evening. He asked in his will that these items be saved for his little daughter, Christine, so that she might remember her earthly father in the years to come. Unfortunately, I found that quickly following the memorial service, Mademoiselle Daaé was sent to live in Paris in the dormitories of the corps de ballet. Therefore I send these items into your most capable hands, that you might give them to her should she ever return to Perros (and I do expect this to happen one day soon— the poor little child was very fond of her father). Monsieur Daaé, God rest him, was a man of the kindest nature, and I wish to do him this one last favor. I do thank you for your cooperation, and remain,_

_Your dear friend and fellow servant of the Lord,_

_Father Constantine_

My eyes burned with unshed tears as I folded the letter back reverently and began to thumb gently through the papers. A familiar photograph of a young man with kind brown eyes gazed up at me; it was the same one, albeit less careworn, that little Christine had placed over her candle in the chapel of the Opera. Beneath it was another photograph, faded at the edges, with little smudged areas that looked suspiciously like teardrops, of a remarkably beautiful young woman with blond curls, wide round eyes, and a painfully familiar smile.

"Her mother," I whispered, tracing my finger tenderly over the high cheekbones, pale forehead, and gentle smile. Somehow, these pictures made me love Christine all the more… to have a history, faces, memories to imagine and piece together… I felt closer to her, connected with her, as a previously invincible barrier had been shattered at last. Eager for more, I placed the pictures gently to the side and began to rummage through the rest of the briefcase.

There were pages upon pages of sheet music, from countless artists and countries and time periods. Most were extremely complex; Daaé, then, had been as good as rumors granted him, if not better.

One thin sheet of paper in particular caught my attention: in the upper right hand corner of _The Resurrection of Lazarus,_ a light, gentle hand had written "Little Lotte's lullaby." I stared unblinkingly for several moments, my hand clasped over my mouth. My eyes scanned the intricate array of notes scrupulously while I played those notes out in my head. When I was sure that I had burned them into my mind, I put the paper down, closed my eyes, and replayed the song silently by memory. With a terse nod, I tucked the music away with the rest, a devious smile tugging at my lips. Oh yes, this would work very nicely indeed…

I placed the contents reverently back into the briefcase and snapped it shut, then tilted my head to the side, listening to the goings-on above my head. The priest was in the middle of delivering a long, fiery sermon (which I found to be remarkably dull), and I estimated that the service would probably continue for another half an hour, at the very least.

The smile on my face widened as I set the briefcase and my cloak on the outside of the window, and climbed out with considerably less effort than it had taken to enter. The front of my white shirt was covered in muck, but I couldn't have cared less; I knew how to draw Christine back to me, at last!

_A/N: Oooh, to stop here, or not to stop here… THAT is the question! Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to make the readers suffer another cliffhanger, or bore them with an exceedingly long chapter… _

_-smirks- Oh, I'm in an evil mood today. Sorry, folks… gonna stop here for now. I have to keep you reading somehow! But if you REVIEW for me, perhaps I'll be uber-quick with the next update -hint, hint!- _

_Venus725: I really need to drop by and read your story… my muse just wouldn't leave me alone last night! (not entirely a bad thing) I'm glad it wasn't too horrible. I actually have nothing against Catholics, as I have Catholic friends myself, so please don't interpret it that way… it's Erik, I tell you! LOL._

_Number356: -faints- Another new reviewer? However do I get so lucky? Oh! –new reviewer dance- I actually made a new reviewer dance. Haha! I'm crazy. Well, I'm SO glad you're enjoying it; it's very fun to write! _

_Hriviel: Thank you, my dear. –grimaces- I'm going to have to go back and fix those mistakes sometime… I'm a perfectionist, what can I say? You're completely welcome for the nod; I couldn't very well take the credit for your idea, now, could I? Oh yes! And I checked with Noelle; Erik's all yours for Thursday. Ooh! Lattes and veggie pizza? Good times! _

_Opal: FOUR times, hon. LOL! The last time, I drove half an hour in the pouring rain on the highway to get there, and it was SOLD OUT, but… ahem… I managed to get in. LOL, don't ask. O.G… Hahaha! Omg, that's awesome!_

_Lady Golodwen/Feagliniel/Lady G. (assuming you're the same person, LOL!): OMG, I have never laughed so hard at a review in my entire writing career! –rolls on the floor- Also, I've never heard of a PotO fan who hates the Phantom, come to think of it… -laughs harder- Ah well, there's a first time for everything, and I'll overlook it because you called me "love," "dear," "darling," etc. LOL. Ack, can't stop laughing. Thanks for brightening my day; I'm very glad you like it, even if you don't like Erik. More for me! Mwahaha! _


	21. Little Lotte's Lullaby

_A/N: Aaaah! The quickest update since… well, a long time! I felt bad because I left off on a cliffhanger, so I wanted to get this written and posted ASAP. Ready for a good dose of angst? –grins evilly-_

_Disclaimer: Belongs to Gaston… yada yada yada… but you already know all of this. Andy gets credit for the tune of "Angel of Music," which, by the way, I adore. –happy sigh-_

The Setting Sun Inn was entirely abandoned when I arrived at its front door; every one of its employees and temporary visitors had scampered dutifully off to mass like the "good Catholics" they were. The door was locked, but this, of course, presented no problem to me; I slipped through the cellar door, picked my way carefully around the discarded furniture, and climbed up into a little storage closet behind the main lobby. A few of the old, sunken floorboards squeaked under the pressure of my feet, and I made mental notes to avoid that particular footwork when others were sure to notice it.

Although I was quite certain that no one was left in the inn, I opened the closet door warily, squinting against the garish light that poured into the dark space. Indeed, the only inhabitant of the main lobby was a gray tabby cat, sprawled out and purring on the rug in front of the fireplace. Letting out a small sigh of relief, I hurried over to a spot in the middle of the room, which was obscured to passersby by a circular arrangement of plush furniture. Crouched low to the floor, I toddled my way over the hearth, rubbing the cat's head briefly as I passed.

A black leather instrument case was propped up against the stone fireplace. My eyes glinted in triumph as I snatched it up, tucking it under my arm. I waddled past the cat again and she stretched out, her claws extended, purring like a motor. I laughed softly, but my laughter was cut short as a key clicked and rattled in the front door.

I froze, my heart skipping a beat.

My eyes scanned the room frantically for somewhere to hide, and in a flash I had ducked under the nearest couch, the instrument case still clutched securely under my arm.

"Sublime service, didn't you think, Monsieur?" the innkeeper raved, stepping through the threshold.

"Oh yes, splendid," Raoul's voice answered. His tone was distracted… distressed, almost. I found myself smirking despite my current situation.

The innkeeper seemed to sense the vicomte's unease as well. "And…if I might inquire, where did your lovely wife head off to, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

Raoul did not bother to correct him. "Christine went to visit her father's memorial. He's buried on the outskirts of Paris, but Father Gregory put up a cross in his honor in the churchyard."

I nodded. Raoul truly did not know Christine very well if he did not recognize her weekly routine; every Sunday morning, without fail, she went to visit her father's grave after mass. I had expected her to do similarly in her birthplace— lo and behold, I was correct yet again.

Chewing the inside of my lip, my heart began to race. She would arrive at the graveyard at any moment; I simply could not miss this opportunity!

Unfortunately, one tenant after the other filed into the lobby, leaving me no chance to escape unseen. Five minutes went by, then ten…I nearly began to weep bitterly for the ruin of my brilliant plan when suddenly, all footsteps and mindless chatter faded behind a closed door. I held perfectly still, a puzzled frown creasing my brow, waiting for the noise to return. The door did not open again, however, and slowly I lifted the skirt of the couch to peer around the empty room.

No one was in sight. I did not stop to question; I dashed across the room and into the safety of the little closet, clutching the precious instrument case to my breast.

I bolted down the stairs, ignoring the painfully loud groans of the floorboards. Overhead, I heard the distinct clanking of silverware and glasses, and finally understood; the inn's occupants had all gone off to lunch, leaving the main lobby abandoned.

Laughing quietly at my own stupidity, I ducked out of the cellar door and into the frigid air. My lungs rasped in protest at the change in temperature, but I paid them no heed; Christine needed me, needed her Angel of Music! I flew down to the churchyard, and ducked immediately out of sight behind a large mound of compost. The stench was suffocating, and I wondered morbidly if perhaps the mound consisted of more than dirt and leaves…

I shook the thought away, focusing instead on the breathtaking young woman who knelt in the fresh snow before a little cross, her head bowed in prayer. My heart broke, as it always did, at the sight of her tears; in that moment, she was merely _ma petite Christine_, the little girl who had begged her father for the Angel of Music in the lonely solitude of the opera chapel. Gone were my bitter hatred and resentment, dissolved in her sweet tears. How could I loathe such a pure, innocent creature, suffering and in dire need of my guidance and protection now more than ever?

"Please, Father," she sobbed quietly, her hands clasped under her chin. "Can you hear me? I need you, Papa… I miss you so much." She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the cross, then doubled over, her delicate form trembling with sobs.

My own chest began to constrict painfully with suppressed tears at the sight. As quietly as I could, I opened the leather case beside me, and lifted from it a magnificent, polished violin and a long, firm bow. Swallowing against the painful lump in my throat, I rested the violin on my shoulder and laid my chin gently on top of it. I paused for a moment, calling my Little Lotte's lullaby to the surface of my mind. Slowly, I laid the bow over the string and drew it softly away from me. I closed my eyes, allowing my mind and fingers to meld with the music. Christine gasped, but I dared not break my concentration and look at her; I fell deeper and deeper within the trance of musi il the tune was, impossibly, one with myself. The very air that Christine and I breathed was _The Resurrection of Lazarus_. Never before and never again was there a performance like it.

When the last note drifted off on the wind, plunged into the roaring sea, I finally dared to open my eyes. Christine lay curled in a ball in the snow, her eyes glazed and distant. She did not shiver from the cold, but her pale features were tinted slightly with blue. Her breathing was shallow, but constant, and the tiny ghost of a smile parted her lips. My heart ached with the maddening urge to run over to her and envelop her in my embrace, then whisk her off to the safety of the Opera once again. But my mind knew better, and drowned out the former; were I to take Christine hostage, that damned vicomte would know immediately whom to suspect, and would storm the Opera Populaire with swarms of police.

Instead, I took a steadying breath, and began to sing.

_Christine, my child,_

_The snow-kissed beauty,_

_Rise from your cold vigil._

_Fate lends a hand_

_Obey your master:_

_Return to your strange angel!_

She began to tremble, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

_Father, I hear you,_

_Please don't leave me!_

_Stay by my side,_

_Guide me!_

Her voice was so small, so helpless, that I began to weep.

"I will never leave you, Christine," I whispered to the wind. But as I opened my mouth to sing the assurances she so longed to hear, the crunch of snow under heavy boots rang out in its stead.

"Christine!" Raoul cried, dropping to his knees beside her. I growled viciously in the back of my throat, my hand flying to the hilt of my sword. The boy caressed her cheek and hair gently, huddled over her. "My God, you're freezing!" He whipped off his cloak and laid it gently over her shaking form. "Come, we have to get you inside—"

"We have to go back, Raoul," she whispered hoarsely, her glassy eyes still focused on some distant, invisible point. I smirked proudly to myself; I had won. She was determined to fulfill my bidding, and there was nothing that arrogant pretty boy could do about it.

"Yes, immediately. Let's get you back to your inn and a nice warm—"

She shook him off of her, her eyes suddenly blazing with a possessed fervor. "To the Opera. I want to go back."

Raoul's brow furrowed in concern. "You're delirious, Christine," he said slowly, as if speaking to a small child. "Come, let's get you out of the cold."

"No!" she shot up, shaking her curly head. "I know exactly what I'm saying. Take me back to the Opera, Raoul, or I'll go by myself."

The vicomte looked utterly perplexed for a moment, staring at Christine as if she had just sprouted tentacles. He opened his mouth to object again, but at Christine's unfaltering glare, offered a shrug and a sigh of defeat. "If you insist, my love. We'll leave on the evening train." His hand moved up slowly to squeeze her shoulder. "But for now, can we please go inside? You'll catch your death out here."

Christine deflated then, as if her spirit had suddenly leapt from her, leaving her an empty, broken shell. "Oh, Raoul," she sobbed, collapsing into the bewildered vicomte and burying her face in his neck. He scooped her into his arms, murmuring to her under his breath, and slowly carried her back to the inn.

I watched their two forms unblinkingly until they disappeared behind the closed inn door.

I had won. Christine heard and obeyed my commands, and she would be back at the Opera Populaire by morning.

I crumpled into the snow, beating my fists into the frozen ground as pained sobs erupted from me. "I won!" I screamed raucously to the biting wind and the thundering sea. Laughing maniacally in between my broken sobs, I cried again, "_I won_!"

But in the shadowed depths of my heart, I knew it was a lie.

A/N: Angsty enough? Ahh, don't you HATE it when Raoul ruins a perfectly good E/C moment? LOL. Poor guy. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. –sigh-

_Wow, reviews galore! Sorry, I know I'm not allowing much time to review before I post the next chapter; enjoy these quick updates while they last! _

_Joanieponytail: Ha, you posted the review for chapter 19 about two minutes before I posted chapter 20, so again, I apologize that I couldn't squeeze you into the previous chapter's responses. Thank you! LOL— yeah, now that you mention it, "humongous" IS an after-midnight word. I'll have to go back and change that. I'm glad you liked his reactions to the photographs; he needed a tender moment in between slabs of angst._

_Venus725: Shocking and believable— I'm flattered! Haha… I'm actually glad my muse was bugging me too; occasionally she comes up with a decent plot bunny that nibbles at me until I give in. –winks-_

_Number356: Awww, thanks! –big, happy smile- Well at least I know the cliffhangers are good for keeping the readers coming back for more… -diabolical grin- Hmm, maybe I should do another one… Mwahaha!_

_Opal Gimstone: AAAAAH! Not poking! –cowers behind Erik- LOL. Yeah, four times, and I'm DYING to go see it again; it's playing at the theater FIVE MINUTES from my house, but my dad's a buttmunch and won't let me go. –pouts- Sorry about the short chappie… I know this one wasn't much longer, but there will be some lengthy ones coming up soon, I promise!_

_Lady Golodwen: -shakes head- I STILL don't get how you could hate Erik, the poor baby… LOL, but thanks for the super-long reviews! Haha… Yeah, Madame Giry is quite awesome. Ohhh, no homicides in the movie— Raoul and Erik were trying to murder one another, so Noelle and I had to separate them several times, but now they can actually be in the same room together without one trying to strangle the other or twist their arm until they scream "Uncle" and the like. LOL._

_LePetiteChristine: -squeals- HILARY! –tackle hug- Oh, I love the screen name, dear. –cackles- That's my girl. –sticks out tongue- Hey, no tormenting me over the reviews! I know where you live! LOL. Did anyone else hear about that? Christine supposedly mouths "I love you" to Raoul before kissing Erik at the end… rumor? No clue, but it's ticking me off. –glowers-_

_Sakume: Ahhh! I'm sorry! –sobs- OMG, I'd never forget you! –hands over an entire FACTORY full of chocolate chip cookies- I get a dance? Oh wow, I don't deserve it! –kicks self- Gaaah, bad Nade! I promise NEVER EVER to forget you again… -pouts- Sooooorrrryyyyyyy! _

_Hriviel: OMG, Gustave DOES look like Erik, now that you mention it. He also looks remarkably like Emmy Rossum… male, I mean… lol, go figure. Ahhh, you figured it out— I'll still include "Wandering Child," of course, but this was just kind of my own little nod to Gaston because he deserves it. SO GLAD you caught the reference of Christine's blond mother… didn't know if anyone would get that. Anywho, I needed something for Erik to do for those "three months" that would keep the readers interested… one can only do so much of brooding over the rooftop ordeal and composing DJT before the readers snooze off. ;) _

_Strange Girl: You're back! –hugs- OOOH! –catches cookies and chomps contentedly on them- LOL, aww, I'm sorry. They really WERE two entirely different scenes, albeit short ones, and to combine them would have been somewhat awkward. I'm trying very hard to keep things interesting; you all know the story— I'm just attempting to keep it new and "fresh" with little twists here and there. Glad it's making sense… I write spontaneously, and don't know what's going to happen until my fingers type it, so if all the ends meet, I'll be pleasantly surprised and thrilled. –crosses fingers- So far, so good! _


	22. Into Darkness

_A/N: -blinks- Well, this chapter is as much if not more of a surprise to me as it undoubtedly will be to everyone else. For those of you who know what I originally had in mind for this chapter, fear not— NEXT time! It just seemed like a good place to stop, and I don't want to cram too much into a chapter. For those of you who DON'T know… well, let's just say things are about to get interesting. This will be the last chapter under the PG (or is it K+ now?) rating— haha, TOLD you things are going to get interesting! (Un)Fortunately, it's only going to be a PG-13 (-sigh- T, whatever)… er… make that PG-16… for sexual content. _

_OH! And I should have you all know that I am on a Christine warpath— I now officially loathe her. Why, you ask? Well, I was finally allowed to see Phantom for the FIFTH time (tee hee!), and at the very end… well, for those of you who love Christine and don't want to hear this, just scroll down and ignore this next part. But I can now tell you that the rumors are, in fact, true… to my utter horror, she DOES mouth "I love you" to Raoul right before turning to Erik and singing her "Pitiful creature" line. –fumes- Anyway, Christine torture is on the way... I need to get my aggression towards her out somehow!_

_Disclaimer: This little episode is my idea… Erik, Christine, Raoul, the managers and César are property of Gaston, but this chappie, at least, was compliments of my muse, who decided to return from her rather lengthy trip to the Bahamas and grace us with her presence. –snorts- Even SHE couldn't resist the temptation of pudding! _

I did not move from my spot near the compost pile, horrendous as it was, until nightfall.

The whistle of a steam engine in the far distance startled me from my despondent trance; for hours I had merely laid in the snow, numb to the cold, unable and unwilling to get up. I fumed and simmered for awhile at the intrusive actions of the repulsive vicomte; Christine was incapable of resisting his boyish valiancy, and found comfort in the memories she shared with him of her pleasant childhood. I understood and accepted this—at first, it did not bother me, for her soul was still undeniably mine. It was not by accident that I had referred to myself as her master; the child needed reprimanding as well as consolation for her hasty departure from the Opera House. But, as usual, the de Chagny boy's timing could not have been worse. I still had not found the opportunity to explain the events surrounding Buquet's death, and the young vicomte had undoubtedly begun to fill her head with lies, tainting her and turning her from the only comfort she had known in these past ten years. Christine was confused and thought herself abandoned and betrayed by me, while Raoul lingered by her side with his soft, gentle voice and open arms. What choice did she have, with her mind clouded by doubt, but to cling to the one other happy time in her life— a time that involved her deceased father and Raoul de Chagny exclusively?

No, the fault of this little setback did not rest with Christine. She would obey my command to return to the Opera Populaire. I had won this time, driving her to obedience through fear. I hated it—loathed lying to her and playing this horrible little game. I wanted her to know and love me as myself, as Erik, a man of blood and flesh, not as her father's spirit, but I would take whatever form of affection she could afford to show me at the moment. The vicomte's persistence left me no other option but to continue the Angel of Music façade; if I did not act quickly, I would lose her forever.

My anger died down to a discontent acceptance after awhile. Above all else I loathed feeling powerless, but there was nothing I could do at the time being but wait. I drifted off into a fitful sleep, curled into a ball in the snow, using the violin case as a pillow. Seeking shelter at the inn was completely out of the question, and while I could have sought refuge from the biting cold at the little café, I neither wanted to hold another nauseating conversation with the waitress (kind as her intentions were) nor risk being seen by Christine or the vicomte.

When the train whistles blew in the distance, hours after I had settled into a numb reverie, my body gave an involuntary lurch, my fevered, glassy eyes attempting to focus on the world which spun mercilessly around me.

"Christine," I whispered hoarsely, my pulse quickening. I attempted to scramble to my feet, but my weary muscles launched into violent spasms, my knees buckling beneath me. A wave of nausea swept over me; trembling vehemently, I bent over to vomit into the snow. With a moan of pain, I brought a shaky hand to wipe at my mouth, and yelped in surprise; my cheeks burned with fever, but I could not feel the pressure of my gloved fingertips against the unfeeling flesh.

"Damnit!" I cursed, pounding my fist into the ground. Frostbite, a fever… I needed a doctor, and I knew it. A deep growl rumbled painfully in the back of my parched throat. I loathed doctors almost as much as I loathed the vicomte; visiting the clinic was a last resort, and I stubbornly refused to do so unless I was clinging to life by a thread (which, fortunately, had only occurred once in my lifetime). Again, more slowly and cautiously this time, I climbed to my feet, insistent upon proving my health to an invisible audience. I wobbled in place for a moment, the world spinning around me, but managed to keep myself from collapsing again. With a satisfied smile at my accomplishment, I began to totter unsteadily toward the train station, occasionally stopping to grasp at a tree trunk or fence post until a wave of nausea either went away or wrenched bile from my empty, smarting stomach. My progress was slow, but consistent, and I managed to stumble onto the platform just as the conductor made the last boarding call.

"Here," I rasped, shoving my crinkled, mud-splattered note and return ticket into his hand. The conductor eyed me curiously, his eyes lingering just a little longer than polite on my mask, before nodding to the boy who allowed me entrance into my compartment.

I did not bother to remove my cloak or boots before collapsing onto the soft bed. With a weak moan, I buried my burning face in the cool fabric of the pillows, nestling under the covers. My entire body ached and shook uncontrollably; I cursed myself repeatedly for being so foolish— what had I been thinking, lying motionless in the snow for hours on end? Dozens of "should-haves" raced through my throbbing head: I should have thought to get up and walk around, should have snuck back into the shelter of the little church or the inn's cellar… My idiocy rivaled that of the godforsaken managers! I certainly could not win back Christine's heart if I could not move from my own _bed_! Uttering several moans of pain and self-loathing, I mentally ridiculed myself for my stupidity until finally, with the help of the lulling motions of the train, the fever overwhelmed me and I slipped into a long, restless sleep.

It was the second time I had slept the entire train ride between Perros and Gare Montparnasse. The station at the latter was much noisier than the small seaside village, and a screaming baby woke me as the steam engine sputtered to a halt. The combination of grinding metal and the wailing baby were enough to wrench a cry of pain from me; my head seared, the pain causing the edge of my vision to blacken and smudge slightly. I fought stubbornly for consciousness, keeping Christine at the surface of my mind. My muscles trembled with fatigue as I attempted to rise to a sitting position, and after several failed attempts I collapsed on my pillow, soaked in sweat, my lungs burning from the effort.

An insistent knock came at my door, and I turned my head weakly to look.

"Monsieur! Monsieur, I'm afraid I must ask you to come out… the next passengers are ready to board."

I cleared my throat and attempted to sound composed. "Very well. Tell the stable boy to have my horse ready. The black stallion, César. I shall be out in a moment."

"As you wish, Monsieur," the voice replied, followed by the click of heels on the steps heading away from the compartment. I closed my eyes and balled my fists, summoning the last ounces of strength from my ailing body. In one quick, strained movement I pivoted upwards and to the side, kicking my feet over the edge of the bed. A sudden bout of nausea nearly overwhelmed me, but I swallowed and remained deathly still until it passed, then slowly rose to my feet, grasping at the end table for support. My legs wobbled and threatened to buckle beneath me, but I paused, focusing upon the image of Christine, and managed to steady myself enough to take one hesitant step forward. Then another.

It occurred to me to pause at the door and glance quickly out of the curtain window for any sign of Christine, just to be safe. It would be disastrous for her to spot me after all this time. Fortunately, she was nowhere in sight— with any luck she was already in a carriage, on her way back to the Opera.

My heartbeat quickened at the thought. I needed to hurry; if she arrived back before me, the consequences would be dire. What would she think if she followed her angel's commands, traveled all that way, and found my lair empty? It would mean an eternity of solitude for me, and victory for the vicomte.

With a fresh surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins, I managed to make my way down the iron stairs and down the platform in a decent amount of time. To my relief, I found the same stable boy holding a saddled, bridled César where I had left him a few nights before.

"I paid extra special attention to this brute for you, Monsieur, just as you asked me." The boy beamed as I approached him, patting César's well-groomed neck. His eyes widened as I pressed a crisp bill into his hand and snatched the reins from his grasp.

"Help me mount," I hissed without making eye contact, leaning heavily against my patient stallion. My current state was humiliating, but it could not be helped. My muscles trembled from the effort of making it down from the train, threatening to collapse; I needed help.

"Yes, sir!" the boy cried, his grin widening as he pocketed the money. He bent low to the ground and clasped his fingers together in a sort of sling. I stifled a sigh and placed my foot reluctantly into his hands, grasping each end of the saddle with both hands. "On the count of three, then, Monsieur… One, two—" He hoisted me upwards with a surprising amount of strength for such a young lad, and I swung my free leg over the top of the horse, settling down in the center of the saddle and taking up the reins. I still refused to look down at the boy, but nodded my head curtly as I wheeled César around and dug my heels into the warm flesh of his sides. He reared slightly and took off at a quick canter away from the deafening noise of the train station.

By some miracle, I managed to cling to his sides and stay in the saddle throughout the ride to the Opera House, but his jarring pace made my throbbing headache mount to the point at which I once again had to fight for consciousness. Reluctantly, I slowed him a bit as we drew closer; surely Christine would not have arrived yet…

But at the sight of the Rue Scribe entrance, I once again kicked him into a breakneck gallop, around the crumbling brick corners of a bakery, down a narrow alley of damp stone, and finally through the partially hidden arch that led to the catacombs of my domain.

Upon entering the dark labyrinth, my tense, trembling muscles relaxed, and I fell forward on César's neck, resting my head on his coarse mane. He knew his way home, and trotted daintily through the dim passages, his ears pricked in delight at the familiar surroundings. I closed my eyes and rested all of my weight on his shoulders and neck, my abdominal muscles drained completely of their strength to hold my head and torso upright. Despite the pain that coursed throughout my body, I smiled into his mane. Christine would be here soon…

When César finally came to a halt in his stall, dropping his head to munch on his waiting supper, I nearly tumbled forward onto the hard cement ground. It was reflex and instinct that propped me upwards and allowed me to slide sideways off of my horse, for my muscles no longer had any strength left to give.

It was there, on the floor of César's stall, that my weary mind and body finally gave in to cool, comforting darkness.

_A/N: -raises baton- Come, let's chorus together: "POOR ERIK!" I know, I know, but don't worry… he'll -clamps hand over mouth- Well, you'll have to just wait and see, won't you?_

_Hriviel: Hmm, chocolate pudding is my favorite. LOL… no, there shall be no Raoul fainting in this story. –shrugs- Sorry, dear; remember, I'm quite fond of him. DJT is on its way, along with the "flaming sexy" (amen!) Red Death outfit. Yes, it was playing near my dad's house, and after much pouting and quiet sulking and shoulder rubbing (he can't resist), he allowed me to see it AGAIN! YAAAAAAAAAAAY! –does happy dance- Mmk, I'm obsessed, so sue me! LOL._

_Number356: I know, he does tend to ruin perfectly awesome E/C moments. –sigh- But never fear, for the next one will NOT, in fact, be ruined by Raoul. Thanks for reviewing, as always:)_

_LePetiteChristine: -sigh- CHILD! LOL… what to do with you? Tormenting me over reviews isn't very nice. –pouts- Sentence fluency and good grammar… haha, well at least you got the compliments in there. I'm still mad at you. –glowers- Until you sing "Wishing," I'm gonna sulk. Lol._

_StrangeGirl: Join the club, hon. I was SO mad that no one was updating; haha, I'm such a hypocrite, I know, but I love reading phanphic as much as writing it, if not more. So a note to phellow phanphic writers: UPDATE, DANGIT! LOL. Glad you liked it… I know, it's sad. I hate the fact that Erik suffers so much. :(_

_Hicdracones: Ahhh, a Gaston phan! Well, I wanted to give the original version as much of a nod as I possibly could, but I will include the "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again/Wandering Child" sequence, as this story is based off of the musical, and I'd have a whole bunch of reviewers coming after me with pitchforks and Punjabs if I were to leave it out! LOL. _

_Sakume: Aww, you're so cuuute! How could I have ever forgotten you? –kicks self again- Thanks for the continued support… you're such a sweetheart. –hugs-_

_Opal Gimstone: OMG, I was laughing so hard at that review! Too funny… aw, leave poor Raoul alone! It's CHRISTINE that's the evil one! –glares with dangerous glint in eye- Ahem… yes. No need to poke my Dad; I did plenty of that, and he finally let me go. –squee!- So happy. Anyways, thanks again… you're freakin' hysterical!_

_Lady Golodwen: Allo, dearie. –sighs and laughs simultaneously- What to do with you? NO, Erik should not DIE, or I wouldn't very well be able to continue this story, now would I? –cuddles him protectively- Now remember, you PROMISED no Erik bashing in this chappie! –glances at twin- I warn you, my dear, Noelle waits with sword drawn if you are to go back on your word… LOL._

_Joanieponytail: I always look forward to reading your reviews; they're very helpful! –grins- I'm so glad you like the relationships I've set up… I try my best. –blushes- I'm afraid neither man has what one would consider a "healthy" relationship with Christine… one is possessive and controlling, the other is constantly submissive. –sighs- What to do with these boys? LOL… yes, the timing on your last few posts was rather hysterical. Sorry, I'm afraid it was coincidence, not magic. ;) _

_Venus725: LOL… Aww, thanks hon! I'm glad you liked the ending. –blushes- "So… PHANTOM" Haha, yes, that's the general idea! –giggles- _

_LoneWolf2005: DANGIT! Now you've got the James Bond theme stuck in my head! LOL. _

_Thanks for all the reviews, guys! –sings Rod Stewart song- Have I told you lately that I love you? _


	23. Damned to Immortality

_A/N: Bonjour, mes amies! Welcome to the turning point of this phic… Indeed, this chapter should be quite interesting. I do hope you like it! Don't forget to post a review, either way! –smiles sweetly- Might I reiterate that the rating is upped for this chappie... nothing VERY graphic, but not suitable for children or even squirmish teens/adults. Debated whether or not to make it T or M rating... isn't really all that bad, went with T. If you think otherwise, please let me know in a review and I'll up it to M. Thanks!_

_-from the diary of Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny-_

_Dear Diary,_

_Spent the day lounging around Nade's pool, reading a book, when suddenly, found myself flailing in the water, fully clothed, with Nade staring down at me, grinning. She then proceeded to jump in after me. Chased her around the house, screaming and creating quite a ruckus, as she refused to tell me where the towels were. Talked it over with Erik, and found that she did the same thing with him. Starting to think, arrogant as it may sound, that she continues to do so merely for the sake of seeing us sopping wet. Most aggravating. Oh well… Greek pizza tonight, and Erik's coming over for Scrabble and a drink. Do hope he doesn't spell "fop" out again; it's not a word. Might have to resort to a battle of wits, and frankly, he doesn't have a chance._

_Sincerely,_

_Raoul_

_-grins- Just had to do that. Alright. On with the chapter! –charge!- _

My first conscious thought was that I had never felt a pillow so soft in my entire life. At first my heart clenched in panic, for I could not remember where I was or _who_ I was, for that matter. From behind my closed eyelids I could see a faint, flickering light, but when I tried to open them, my head seared with a blinding pain, and I quickly closed them again. Somewhere above me I heard a gasp, and cool, slender fingers came to caress my burning neck and face.

Air… there was fresh air on my right cheek…

My pulse quickened as I groped frantically for the hand which dared to uncover my… what? What was it that I feared—that made my breath come in ragged gasps, my heart beat frantically, my every last nerve go rigid in panic? For a moment I could not remember; instinctively, my hand shifted to the right side of my face. The pads of my fingertips inspected the bizarre array of bumps and crevices and strangely textured, burning flesh.

_My face…_

Despite the knowledge of the pain that would result from opening my eyes, I squinted up against the harsh, iridescent light, struggling in the arms of my attacker. I panted and squirmed and managed to catch my adversary's wrist… so small and cold…

Baring my teeth and snarling like a beast, I managed to focus on the person who held me down.

An angel stared down at me. For a moment I could do nothing but stare in disbelief… she was breathtakingly beautiful. An ocean of chestnut curls cascaded down her slender shoulders; the warm glow of candlelight danced in her deep, kind brown eyes. Her skin was like cream, her lips the smooth velvet of rose petals. She radiated compassion through her very pores, it seemed, and suddenly I knew, if nothing else, that I loved her.

Her brows lifted slightly as my grip on her wrist loosened, and she reached audaciously to stroke my malformed cheek yet again.

"Hush, _mon ange_," she whispered, her fingers brushing gently along my jawbone. "Lay still. I'm here now." She bent to press her lips to my fevered forehead, and I realized with a jolt of my heart that my head rested in her lap. For reasons yet unclear to me, tears welled in my eyes, and I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. A voice which seemed to resonate from the depths of my soul howled at her gentle touch, insisting that something was terribly, terribly wrong…but my aching body objected, and my tear-filled eyes refused to be torn from her beautiful face.

My mind reeled… who was this magnificent creature—this angel of mercy?

A name worked its way gradually to the front of my mind, and evoked a concurrent delight and pang in the center of my being.

_Christine…_

I shivered. Yes… yes, that was her name. Christine. The angel's name was Christine.

A smile worked its way across my parched, cracked lips, and my heart thrilled as she returned it. With a deep, shuddering breath, I allowed the tense, sore muscles of my neck to relax into the warmth of her lap, and let the sweet, familiar darkness claim me, feeling safe and secure in her arms.

_A/N: Haha— THE END! –dodges flying objects- Just kidding, just kidding! –cackles- Sorry, couldn't resist. Mmk, it's about to get a little steamy in here, people… I've given you fair warning! Rating goes up… NOW! Past the point of no return— no going back now! Our passion play has now, at last— ahem. –bites lip and looks away- Alright. I'm done. Haha. On with the E/C-ness! _

Upon waking for the second time, my fever had died down to a painful simmering in the core of my gut, but the temporary amnesia associated with it had, thankfully, burned its way out of my system. I drifted back to consciousness with a moan and a splintering headache, but upon pressing my palm to my forehead, I found the flesh to be surprisingly cool and clammy.

Snippets of memory from the past few… how long had it been?— hours? days?— surfaced to my conscious mind. For a moment I simply laid there, trying to piece the dissonant fragments together.

By the time I deciphered that Christine had come to my aid after I had fallen ill (or had it been merely a pleasant dream?), my thawing senses finally began to recognize the gentle lapping of water from the next room. I looked about warily; I was back in my own bedroom, dressed in a crimson silk robe and matching pair of sleeping pants. My chest was bare and bruised in places. The revolting, yellowish-purple splotches prodded my curiosity, and I began to gently twist my aching muscles, searching for similar or—God forbid— worse injuries. I discovered a clotted gash that ran the length of my upper right arm, but it had been tended to, dressed with a thick ointment. Aside from the minor bruising and occasional scrape, I seemed to be, remarkably, unscathed.

But what of my nurse—the angel of mercy who had cared for me so dutifully?

The sounds of water from the next room finally captured my undivided attention. The bedroom was dimly lit by candlelight, and a beam of light shone brightly around the curtain which served as my bedroom door. Slowly, I attempted to rise to my feet, and found that I was no longer overwhelmed by nausea at the movement. Instead, my aching calf muscles screamed in agony as I forced them to support my body weight. I flinched against the searing pain, hissing through clenched teeth, but managed to hobble quickly over to the curtain and the source of the noise.

Peering around the crimson curtain, I spotted Christine kneeling by the little pool of filtered water which I kept for drinking and bathing purposes, ladling the cool liquid into a small wash basin. The delicate flesh of her small, pale hands had been rubbed raw, and her white dress was bloodstained and tattered; my brow furrowed in concern, and I took several quiet steps forward to investigate.

I stopped in my tracks at the sight of my lair, gaping all around me. A pile of soiled clothes and bed sheets was heaped next to the furnace, along with a metal washboard and a bar of pearly soap. The sheet music which had been cast haphazardly across my organ and workspace was now stacked and categorized neatly, my organ polished, the candle wax drippings, cobwebs, mothballs and dust swept completely out of sight. My mask was set out on the end table near my organ, my cloak hung on its proper hook near my workbench. The place was positively immaculate, and barely recognizable.

"You did this?" I wheezed, shifting my attention back to Christine. She spun around to face me with a gasp, her hand flying to her open mouth. She scampered to her feet, smoothing her dress and hair.

"Master! I did not realize you were awake." She squirmed restlessly under my gaze, her weary brown eyes darting nervously around the room. "Yes, I-I… well, you were sick, and once you fell unconscious again, I-" Her eyes finally locked with mine as I drew steadily closer, studying her small, trembling form intently. She swallowed and closed her eyes briefly as I took one of her reddened hands in my own and began to stroke the tender flesh gently. "I'm sorry if I've done something wrong," she managed finally, her voice barely a whisper.

I narrowed my eyes slightly at her; they glinted in amusement at her palpable fear, while the rest of my face remained locked in a neutral expression. Slowly, I turned her hand over within my own, brushing my fingertips along the sensitive skin of her palm. Still, I stared deeply into her eyes, refusing to break eye contact. "Why do you fear me, Christine?" I breathed, bringing her hand to my lips and kissing each fingertip gently. I watched, fascinated, as her breath caught and quickened in her chest, despite her obvious effort to maintain composure. An amused smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, but I swallowed it forcefully.

She bit down on her lip as if to stifle a cry, her eyes a torrent of emotion. Betrayal, pain, lust, and disgrace gathered in those pools of beloved brown as she stared up at me. "You killed Buquet," she said coldly.

I arched an eyebrow, bringing my lips to her wrist. Her heart pounded in her veins, betraying her true desires, though she tried to cover them with anger and accusations.

"Did I?" I asked, trailing my lips lightly up her wrist and inner arm, breathing in the intoxicating scent of her skin. "Tell me, Christine," I breathed into her skin between kisses, "Did your beloved vicomte tell you that?" She moaned softly as my tongue slipped curiously into each kiss, filling my mouth with the delicious taste of her. I continued to brush my lips upwards until, quite suddenly, there was no more flesh left to savor; here I paused to nuzzle the warm air just above her shoulder. Christine's eyes, which had rolled shut as my lips traveled up her arm, fluttered open and gazed up at me with a smoldering passion, a ravenous desire which had but one outlet. Her lips were parted, her breath coming in soft gasps, but she would not—or could not—answer me.

I could no longer stifle a satisfied smirk as I moved in closer to her beautiful porcelain face, my lips hovering mere centimeters from hers. Christine's breath was hot and moist as it mingled with my own, and for a moment I had to reprimand myself before losing all self-control. Tilting my head slightly to the side, I brushed my lips to her temple, and whispered softly into her ear. "How about a lesson?"

She jerked back from me as if she'd been stung, her brows knitting in confusion. "A lesson?" Her voice trembled nearly as much as the rest of her body. "_Mon ange_, I cannot—"

My eyes danced gleefully as I brushed past her and began to rummage through the organized stacks of sheet music. Finding the song I wanted, I quickly turned to hand it to her.

"I trust you read through the songs while organizing." It was not a question, but my voice held an undertone of amusement which she seemed to catch on to. She blushed, taking the sheet lightly in her hand and studying the lyrics momentarily. Her eyes widened fearfully as they darted back to mine.

"Oh, no, _mon ange_, you cannot ask me to sing this…"

My gaze hardened slightly. "I am your teacher, Christine. You will sing what I ask you to sing." I took a few steps closer to her, fighting another smile as her resolve visibly weakened. "And I am asking you to sing this." In another few steps, I had come to stand directly behind her, my cheek resting in her curls, my lips pressed to her ear lobe. "Sing," I whispered, bringing a hand up to stroke her neck lightly in a motion that I knew would drive her mad. She moaned, and I smiled at the vibration of her vocal chords against my fingertips. I wrapped my free arm around her small waist, the fingers of my right hand still skirting the flesh of her neck. "Sing," I commanded again, pulling the length of her body tightly against mine.

Her voice trembled uncontrollably as she complied:

_You have brought me_

_To that moment where words run dry,_

_To that moment where speech disappears_

_Into silence,_

_Silence . . ._

She hesitated, turning her head to try and look at me. I pressed my temple tightly to hers, forbidding the action. Her pleading doe eyes would not win her disobedience this time. "Good," I hissed. "Continue."

_I have come here_

_Hardly knowing the reason why_

_In my mind I've already imagined_

_Our bodies entwining, defenseless and_— "God, Erik!"

I inhaled sharply at the use of my name, drawing my lips and tongue away from the point at which her neck and collarbone met. Christine arched her back against the painfully obvious sign of my own pleasure, gasping and tilting her head back. I could not resist the tender flesh of her long, pale neck, and crushed my lips against her skin, capturing it between my tongue and upper lip and sucking hungrily. Christine writhed in my grasp, tossing her head restlessly.

"Sing," I managed between fevered kisses.

"I can't!" she gasped breathlessly. "God, I can't…"

"You can," I assured her, kissing my way up to the soft, tender spot behind her ear. Drunk on desire, needing to see her reaction, I prodded this spot with my tongue, and grinned as she arched her back again and whimpered.

"Erik, please," she panted, her chest heaving beneath her corset. I grinned devilishly, swirling my tongue along the back of her ear.

"Please what?"

She snatched the hand which clutched her waist and brought it to her lips, pressing desperate kisses to my wrist. I growled in pleasure and relaxed the hand as she nipped at the flesh and began to explore with her own tongue. My own mouth traveled back to the hollow at the base of her neck, and she tilted her head instinctively to the side to allow me easier access.

"Go on," I insisted, parting from her sweet flesh momentarily to snatch the piece of sheet music from where it had fallen from her limp hand. I pressed it to her palm, but my momentary absence had driven her nearly to madness. She spun to face me, free of my constricting grasp, and pressed her small body against mine, her lips roaming frantically over the exposed skin of my bare chest. My own breath grew thin as liquid fire swept over me, prodded by her velvet lips and hot tongue against my flesh. I could not stand this much longer…

Suddenly, I reached out and grabbed her forearms tightly, then spun her around to press her up against the stone wall. Christine stared up at me, her wide eyes filled with a burning desire and a pleading for me to fulfill it. Roughly, I grasped the back of her thigh and pulled it against my straining midsection. "You play with fire, Mademoiselle," I whispered huskily as she collapsed into my shoulder, panting. I buried my face in her neck, trying desperately to catch my breath. She clung to me tightly, her fingernails digging into the skin of my shoulder blades.

"Erik," she breathed into my collar bone. "Erik, please…"

I squeezed my eyes shut; they burned with unshed tears as I cursed myself under my breath. I could not do this. Desires of my body be damned— I could not go through with this. This little game was not supposed to have spiraled so out of control…

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I pulled back just far enough to look deeply into her eyes. She was frightened… but no longer a child. She stood before me a grown woman, and an undeniably beautiful one, begging me to take the last scraps of her innocence, torn away in the writhing sheets of passion. My own body begged to comply, ached to find release from years of solitude in her perfect form, but a bleeding pang in my heart slowly but surely began to drown out the demands of my straining trousers.

I cupped her chin gently with my fingertips, and brought my lips down to her pale forehead reverently, as a father would kiss a beloved child. I could almost see the thankful smile of Gustave Daaé shining out from her heartbroken eyes. Christine's father had promised to send her an Angel of Music… a guide and a guardian. Yet it was not an angel who stood before her, aching for her flesh, but a man. If I was to take her, here and now, as she begged of me, what would I be to her but a mortal? Just another man, struck by her beauty and poise and compassion… just another lover…

_Just like Raoul de Chagny._

My heart clenched at the unbidden thought. It was true… so horribly true. If I did what she asked, if I gave in to her, she would finally know the truth, know that I was merely human, merely a broken man, cast from society, doomed to reign in solitude until her beautiful, radiant light drew me from darkness. And what did I have to offer her that other men did not?

Nothing.

She would never choose me. Not over the vicomte, with his handsome face and large estate and the promise of a future in the society of the elite. Why in God's name would she choose me and my life of music in the sewers of the Opera, with Raoul there to offer her everything she'd ever dreamed of?

The answer was simple. She wouldn't.

My eyes flooded with tears as I stared down at her, my eyes begging for her to understand. But she didn't—how could she? Her face twisted in remorse and pain, her lower lip trembling as she looked away.

_Christine, Christine_, I sang mournfully to her, my voice broken with tears. Couldn't she see that I wanted this, _needed_ this as much as she did? It took every last fiber of will power to allow her to slip from my arms in that moment. I did not try to explain, to stop her… what could I have said? That I had lied to her all of these years, that I was no more of an angel than Piangi, Firmin or that damned vicomte of hers?

I watched her go helplessly. She stormed over to the boat and began to untie it from the dock. She stepped gingerly into it, grabbing the oar, trying desperately to hide her tears from me. Meanwhile, I collapsed into the wall and sunk down to the floor, my heart broken and my conscience clear.

Christine's hands trembled on the oar as she paddled away, her breathing sharp as she attempted unsuccessfully to stifle her sobs of rage and despair. She paused at the grate, but I had already crawled over to the lever, pulling it for her as a single tear escaped down my marred cheek. Her eyes locked with mine for a moment before she pursed her lips, scowling down at me through her tears.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better, _mon ange_," she spat before turning away. She did not look back.

It was the last time I laid eyes on her in two and a half months.

_A/N: -peers around, wondering at your reactions- These should be interesting reviews… haha. Something tells me I'll have a very mixed reaction –glances at a certain someone who knows who she is- but I must say, I'm rather pleased with this chappie. I've never written anything quite so sensual before, so I'd very much like feedback, good or bad. Thanks in advance!_

_Venus725: -shakes head- Well, I'm glad you liked it anyways. I just thought the first version sounded way too much like a girl with terrible PMS. –shrugs- Hope I didn't butcher this chapter too badly; I know how you like "well written seduction." LOL. _

_Hriviel: Aww, Erik WOULD cry at a movie like Edward Scissorhands. –swoons- Johnny Depp… ahh, very hot. Very hot, indeed. –winks- I can't wait to write "Down Once More"… alas, several chapters left to go. –hurries- EVERYONE GO READ HER PHIC, "HAUNTED!" IT'S SO FREAKIN GOOD! (or should that be "phreakin"?)_

_Lady G: Yes, yes you did. –applauds your effort- But please be nice on Erik… he did the right thing in this chapter, no? I was on the verge… as I wrote it, I really couldn't decide whether or not he would just go through with it… could have tied in a nice little line about them having past the point of no return… -sigh- Ah well. –dangles Raoul over your head tantalizingly- Remember Monsieur le Vicomte while you review! LOL. _

_Sakume: Yeah, she DOES! So I tormented her in this chapter… mwahaha! It was great fun making her writhe in his grasp. –cackles evilly- Evil? YOU? Noooo! You're my nice, sweet reviewer! –sigh- Poor Erik, indeed. And, I'm afraid, it only gets worse from here. _

_Shadow Fox Forever: I know, it had to wait a chapter. Sorry, but here it is! Christine torture to the MAX! I mean, what could be worse than being seduced by the extremely sexy Erik and then being left unsatisfied at the last moment? NOTHING! Bwahaha! _

_Joanieponytail: EW, R/C sexual content? –shakes head vigorously- NEVER! Not in this story, hon. LOL. Unfortunately, I'd be straying away from the storyline if Erik got to tell his side of the Buquet incident… because if Christine knew what really happened instead of what Raoul feeds her, I believe she'd stay with Erik at the end. And we all know that doesn't happen. –mumbles about her being a two timing little !#$- Thank you… I appreciate the encouragement more than I can say. –smiles- _

_StrangeGirl: Oh, GOOD, there are other Christine haters out there! Haha… naw, I've had my little fun Christine torture session, so I'm over it. Kinda. Tee hee. Thanks so much… -drags you up- No bowing down! I don't deserve it… I can't believe you guys actually like this story… haha… I think it's terrible! I'd be flaming myself if I could! LOL. –shakes head in disbelief-_

_Noni-Noelle: -YAY!- LOL… That. Was. THE. Best. Review. EVER! See? SOMEONE dares to flame me… kinda. Sorta. But not. –waves fist- Just COULDN'T stand to leave out the compliments, could you, my dear? –huggles- Ah well, can't stay mad at you for more than two seconds. A –cookie- for your first review!_

_Opal Gimstone: You DO make me laugh, and I appreciate it. The world needs more funny people like you. –a cookie for your effort- Yeah, I know a few girls who break guys' hearts like that too… get my maternal instincts raging. –snorts- YES, I was so excited I got to see it again! I know a girl who saw it eight times… -shakes head- Craziness. No, May 3rd cannot possibly come soon enough! –glances at clock impatiently- 22 DAYS!_

_Thank you all so much for the continued reviews! –wraps you all in a big hug- _


	24. Caged

_A/N: -blinks- Alright, I have no idea what this chapter is about. My muse (Who now has a name! If you wish to curse her, her name is Kessie) attacked me this morning, shoved me down in my computer chair, and had my fingers flying so fast I'm not even sure what I wrote. So if you all can figure it out, please let me know! LOL. A lot of recap, an internal study of just what IS going on within the Opera Ghost's head at this point in time. –shrugs helplessly- Well, that explains a lot, huh? Just read and go ahead and tell me it's horrible! LOL. It'll get better soon, I promise. Don Juan is coming up! Woo hoo! YAY for Sexy!Erik._

_Disclaimer: This chapter is actually highly influenced by Susan Kay's "Phantom," which, by the way, is absolutely phantastic. –whispers- There's an online version which y'all can download if you don't have $85 to spend on it. E-mail or IM me for the link, and thanks to Jenna SO much for sharing the wealth! _

A cold, instinctive indifference washed over me as I watched the last of the lake's ripples smooth over into glassy perfection. Christine's shuddering sobs echoed on the cold stones of the underground labyrinth, but for once her cries of distress did not produce a stab of insuppressible protectiveness within me.

She was safe at last from the wretched, abominable beast that dwelled in the sewers of the Opera house.

I sneered down into the sunken blue eyes of the unmasked monster as the grate settled into the murky shallows with one final rusted screech. "Caged once again, Erik?" I asked the loathsome creature menacingly before dashing my abhorrent reflection into turbulent waves. Unbridled fury suddenly seized my trembling form… fury at the injustice of it all, at the loss of the first woman I'd ever loved, since...

My heart pounded as a flood of images closed in from every corner of my mind at the unfinished thought. It had been years, _decades_ since I'd found a reason to plunge over that deadly precipice into the blurred depths of my memory… to a house draped in ivory, and a woman with hatred and repulsion etched into her otherwise striking features.

I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head as if the action could prevent the onslaught of memories long buried and forgotten that now surfaced with a staggering clarity and wrenching pain. I curled into a tight ball on the stone floor, my forehead buried in my knees, pleading for it to stop, to have mercy, to just go away and leave me alone...

But then, when had anyone or anything ever bothered to show me mercy?

_I did not budge at my mother's request to change for my first birthday supper. "Mama?" I said quietly._

_"What is it now?" she sighed, grabbing the folded silk napkins from the cupboard near the dining room entrance._

_"Will you give me a present too?"_

_She placed the napkins out on the table without looking up at me. _

_"Of course," she said, one eyebrow arched in annoyance. "Is there something particular that you want?"_

_Slowly I inched closer to her, my lips pressed in a thin white line. Indeed, there was something that I craved more than anything in the world… more than any of the lavish, expensive gifts which my deceased father's fortune could supply me. Even more than music. But I did not know how to ask it of her… I hardly knew anything about birthdays at all, but from her explanation I gathered it was something very important in the world outside our home, the cruel world from which Mama came. Perhaps then, just this once, she would grant me my deepest desire._

_"May I have anything I want?" I asked haltingly as she laid polished silver forks atop the freshly pressed napkins._

_"Within reason." _

_I bit my lip harder, fearful of her reaction. "May I have two of them?"_

_"Why should you need two?" she questioned suspiciously, narrowing her beautiful gray eyes._

_"So that I can save one for when the other is used up," I explained matter-of-factly._

_Mama seemed to relax a bit, the guarded look fleeing from her eyes. She rose to her full height, crossing her arms over her chest and studying my masked face carefully. "What is it you want?" she asked directly._

_I met her gaze desperately, willing her to understand without the clumsy distortion of words._

_"Erik, I've had quite enough of this silly game now. If you don't tell me what you want straightaway, you will have nothing at all."_

_Blood trickled from the inside of my lower lip. I jumped at the sudden severity of her tone, twisting the corner of a napkin between my thumb and forefinger._

_"I want— I want two ..." I swallowed the metallic taste in my mouth, but my vocal chords were frozen in terror._

_"For God's sake!" she snapped, slamming her palm down on the table top. "Two what?" I looked back up at her, my eyes filled with tears of anticipation. _

_"Kisses," I breathed, my voice wavering uncontrollably. "One now and one to save."_

_Immediately, I regretted asking it of her. Mama's eyes widened in horror as she staggered backwards, her knuckles white on the tabletop. Then, without warning, she collapsed to the floor, sobs wracking her thin form. I felt an anguished cry swell in my own chest, but I was rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but stare down at her, horrified..._

I clenched my fist and pressed it to my forehead as the image of my mother's horrified face dissolved into the depths of my mind. I was sobbing, I realized… my soul howled at the loss of my mother and my childhood, and I hated myself for it. My mother had never done anything to earn my love or respect. Her hand had been like steel; she had threatened to kill me more times than I could count. She had never caressed me, never cared for my emotions or how many times she broke my young heart. She never loved me. My own _mother_ never loved me… and if she could not find it within her to care for her own flesh and blood, why in God's name would anyone else bother? It was then, on the evening of my fifth birthday, that I finally realized that I was not, and never would be, lovable.

It wasn't until the fateful night nearly twenty five years later that Christine— my beautiful little Christine— had sung a trembling prayer, and stirred within me an emotion I had thought long dead. Her father, her sole companion, provider, protector, and friend, had been wrenched from her by that same cruel fate which seemed to take delight in my torment. She was utterly alone in a cold, merciless world which (like myself) she slowly withdrew herself from, going about her daily routines with a glazed detachment. At night, however, she was an entirely different creature…passionate, desperate, and positively entrancing. Her voice, untrained and immature as it was, belonged to the angels themselves; an odd thought indeed, as I had abandoned all faith in God or heaven before I had reached the age of ten. This one girl, this one small child, defied in one moment everything I had taught myself in my entire lifetime. I had convinced myself that I was better off in solitude, unseen and unheard, lost in the trance which I watched her walk through every day. Humans were evil, all of them, and eventually, no matter what, they would betray me. I had wrapped myself in the protective cocoon of music, secluded from the rest of the world, until that one night which changed everything.

She possessed my every thought from that day on. All other affairs within the Opera House slipped completely from my mind; I cared nothing for the performances except those small snippets in which Christine appeared onstage. But I was greedily obsessed; why should I share the little-known secret of my pupil's astounding talent with the Parisian society which shunned me? No… I taught her instead, instructed her into the late hours of the night, tending to her voice like a gardener huddled over a precious rosebud. During the day, I commanded that she sing quietly, so as not to draw attention to herself. She was a patient and obedient little student, creeping down to the dark chapel every night to receive her lessons after even the longest and most strenuous days of rehearsal. Her eyes lit up whenever my voice rang out from the stone around her; slowly, I came to understand that she enjoyed our lessons, found healing and comfort in music, as much as I did.

But as time went on, a most disturbing and fascinating thought hit me with a harsh tug to the core of my gut.

I loved her.

First, as a teacher loves a student—an innocent love, fragile and tentative. I longed to mold her spirit as well as her song. I took great pride in her accomplishments, and worked resolutely to help her reach her highest potential.

Then, as a father loves a daughter. I was fiercely protective of her, and gradually began to lure her away from the rest of the world, where I could be sure to shelter and guide her without interruption. Of course, I allowed her to continue her friendship with little Meg Giry, merely out of gratitude to her mother for her kindness. Our lessons became longer and more intense; more than once, Christine burst into tears during these stressful sessions (I had been most perturbed, until Madame Giry reminded me patiently that she was, in fact, growing quickly into a young lady, and her emotions would run rampant for awhile). I always soothed her during these outbursts with a lullaby, allowing her to gather her strength before proceeding. She would smile after awhile and apologize, and sing sweetly to me as a gift for my patience. Patience… another virtue which she taught me through our time together; I understood for the first time that not all people learn with the speed and vivacity as myself, and began to modify my instruction to her pace, not my own. Selflessness, humility, passion… her gifts to my soul were endless and equally precious.

But, as all young girls must, I watched in awed reverence as my pretty little Christine blossomed into a breathtakingly beautiful young woman. To my endless annoyance, I was not the only one to notice. Swarms of suitors attempted to court her after watching her sparkle on the stage (damned Lefevre always chose rather revealing costumes for the chorus girls, most of which he slept with… but when he attempted to lure Christine into his office after _Carmen_, I promptly set his desk on fire, and that was the end of that!). I made sure that she kindly declined each invitation to dine with the dashing young men of wealth and esteem, but as one suitor after the next approached her, a panicked terror gripped my heart. How long would it be before the threat of her Angel's disappointment was not enough to restrain her? How long before she fell head over heels for a charming young duke, abandoning her lessons entirely? How long before she, like everyone else in my life, broke my heart and left me once again in the prison of solitude which I had come to fear and loathe more than anything?

The appearance of the Vicomte de Chagny had been the last straw. I drew her to me with the spell of shared music, soothed her with a lullaby, placed her gently in the bed which I wished to share with her for the rest of my life. My unmasking had shocked and enraged me before I fell prey to despair. Surely she could not bear to be with a hideous monster… loving me was out of the question. Unheard of. I was repulsive, incapable of being loved, especially by this perfect angel.

But still I longed for her. Despite the doubt and self-loathing which had been drilled into me since my birth, some faint drumming within me, untouched by my mother's malice or the gypsy's whip, dared to hope…

When Christine stood on the rooftop and offered to spend the rest of her life with that damned vicomte, confirming my deepest dread and betraying me as everyone else had, I thought the spark hadbeen smothered at last. My spirit was broken. I wanted to die. She was my everything, my one purpose for existence. But, like a whipped dog, I followed her, boldly daring to think that for once, fate would show mercy. _MERCY_!— to a creature such as I! She drowned out all reason, every lesson I'd learned the hard way, for I could not bring myself to believe that she was like the rest of them. No, not my Christine. Not my angel.

Damn her. I had been just fine; I had sealed the wounds of my past and buried them. But then she had come along, and warped my very existence. To think, I once wanted to mold her to my specifications; how ironic that we had switched roles unknowingly.

I wanted her, and I loathed her. I was her slave and master, her Angel of Music and the Devil's Child. And she: my muse and my tormenter, my inspiration, my joy, my refuge, and my pain. The air still smelled of her faint perfume; I could taste her on my tongue and hear her gasps of pleasure at my gentle caress, feel her mouth against my bruised, heaving chest...

I did not know what to think anymore. Instinct and emotion clashed in a dizzying, churning, chaotic uproar within me. Groping blindly in the darkening lair, I crawled to my one source of comfort, my one unwavering source of solace and refuge since infancy.

My fingers pounded over the ivory keys; I closed my eyes, letting my turbulent array of emotion sweep in an arc from my muddled conscious into the very air around me. I breathed and drank in the music, pouring my soul into the organ and basking in the instrument's ability to so accurately portray it.

I do not know for how long I played. Hours, days, a week… time was of no importance. Music was my fuel; I needed no food nor sleep to sustain me. Such things were for mortals, for weaklings, for creatures of the vile earth. But while my fingers danced over the keys, I was, unmistakably, the Angel of Music, trapped in Hell by a mangled face and bound to burn by the child who reminded me that somewhere within the cage of my human flesh, a heart continued to beat with a resilience incapable of being broken by the crack of a whip or even the refusal of a mother's kiss.

My heart beat solely for that child. And if I lived to see a thousand years on this wretched earth, no amount of music could drown that truth out.

_A/N: LOL. Confused? Join the club. –sighs- Ah well, I tried. –throws hands up in the air- No, no, wait, let me guess! "It's awesome!" –shakes head- You guys are incredible. _

_And I got SO MANY REVIEWS on my last chappie! –does dance- Woo hoo! Glad you liked the E/C sensuality… probably going to wind up writing an E/C phic sometime after I finish this. –happy sigh- Sorry for the slow updates, guys; I'm trying to hold off so I can include "No One Would Listen." Bear with me, and remember how much I love you! _

_Hriviel: -tackle hug- You were indirectly the inspiration for this chappie, and if it weren't so horrible, I'd dedicate it to you. Sorry cut off your review, and thanks so much for e-mailing the rest to me. What did I ever do to deserve such awesome phriends? I laughed so hard at your review, and blushed a great deal too. Gah, I'm SO glad it turned out okay. No more hot E/C kisses until "Down Once More," unfortunately, but we'll get there, we'll get there!_

_Venus725: LOL, omg, you guys are too nice! –blushes deeply- Thanks so much… you know how much I adore you. You make me laugh! –takes a bow- Like I said, Sexy!Erik is fun to write, and I plan on doing more in the future. The encouragement was priceless, and my swollen ego thanks you._

_Witchy-grrl: -does new reviewer dance- I love seeing Erik's sensual side come out to play, too! Thank you; the best compliment anyone could give me is that I'm still writing Erik in character. He's so COMPLICATED. LOL. Sorry for the confusion at the end… I meant for her to be mad that he didn't continue; I mean, COME ON, if he's gonna seduce her, he better have the decency to go through with it! –snorts- lol _

_Opal Gimstone: Double-edged sword, indeed! That was the point exactly; I'm glad you got it! "Flamey"— LOL! –adds to vocabulary- Yes, I know, it would have been awesome if Raoul stumbled in, but really, it wouldn't have been realistic. If he knew his way down, he wouldn't have to ask Madame Giry at the end, now, would he? –giggles- "Eep"… er, no, can't see Erik saying "eep," but he might pull a Punjab then and there with a sexy little growl! _

_Strange Girl: LOL… Gah, you flatter me! –blushes again- Honestly, my cheeks are gonna be permanently pink! –sighs- YES, I know, we all wanted them to continue (well, except a few of us), but it just didn't feel right. It's horrible of me, I know, but writing Angsty!Erik is just so fun. Lots and lots and lots of angst coming up! _

_Inkie pinkie: I know… -sighs- Next time! I'll write a purely phluffy E/C phic one of these days and let you guys bask in all the sap. Mmk?_

_Joanieponytail: AUUUGH! I tried to e-mail you, and it didn't woooork! –whines- BELIEVE me, I can come up with plenty more to say about R/C sexual content, and that "Ew" was many, many letters longer, but the stupid site cuts it down to two letters. –sighs- I love you. Haha. No, I do! You're so sweet… and you truly understand what point I'm trying to get at in every chapter. I'm glad you liked it, and I agree that it was good that Erik stopped himself. –nods- Your devotion means everything to me… thank YOU so much!_

_Shadow Fox Forever: Oh good! I was trying to avoid smut. I'd be lying if I said I didn't envy Christine, but that's not why I wrote this chapter. Glad it didn't appear that way!_

_LePetiteChristine: -sighs- Chill, child! LOL. I didn't write it to torment you; I wrote it to drive the plot forward and make all the E/C phans happy (seemed to have worked). But hey, if I can torment you in the process, woo hoo! –grins evilly- Yes, you're still ma petite Christine, because you FINALLY sang for me. –does dance-_

_The Singing Fox Demon: -does new reviewer dance AGAIN- YAYYYY! Ahh, I'm so spoiled! Thank you! –gives you a cookie- Yes, Christine stupid and unreasonable. I loathe her. Haha! Success!_

_Lady G: Well I'm EXTREMELY glad that you found Erik to be tolerable in this chapter. –smirks- See, he's not all bad! Er, no, Christine didn't try to say no AT ALL, my dear… lol. Not even a little. She wanted him, period (come on, who wouldn't?). That was all him being good and resisting. Happy birthday again… I know it's a little late, but I hope it was a great day!_

_Sakume: Ah, well, to each his own. I appreciate the honesty! I didn't expect everyone to like the sensuality. –shrugs- But don't worry, you still get a –cookie!- for reviewing. I personally LOVED the tongue prodding part… LOL. –bites lip- Anywho._

_The next update should come quicker… again, sorry for the delay. DJT is coming up, along with some Carlotta torture, chaos within the Opera Populaire, the return of Madame Giry, and much more, so stay tuned! _


	25. A Rude Awakening

_A/N: Meh, I am extremely unhappy with this chapter, but it will have to do for now, as I'm anxious to get on to "Masquerade/Why So Silent" and the like. Sorry about this… I hate asking you to settle for mediocrity, but then this entire story is just kinda bleh, so I suppose you won't mind. laughs while dodging objects hurled by Noelle_

_Oh! I went back and cut the original ending of this chapter off to make way for chapter 27. It just worked better. Sorry if it's confusing…_

_Disclaimer: See the past 23 disclaimers, as I'm low on time… hurry, Nade, hurry! _

When the extravagant, soulful crescendo finally ebbed beneath my throbbing fingers, I crumpled to the floor in exhaustion. My eyes were filled with a thick glaze of searing tears from lack of sleep; the bones of my hands and wrists seemed ready to crumble; every last fiber of my aching body screamed for a rest. The clenching and churning muscles of my empty stomach had long since fallen numb to pain, but somehow during that strenuous session the gash in my arm had managed to break open again, the hot blood trickling slowly down my back.

Despite my body's pleas for mercy, I refused to give in to the sweet temptation of sleep, for fear of the dreams that would undoubtedly plague my unguarded mind. I simply lay there for a moment, concentrating on my strained, ragged breathing.

As a rule I was not normally a drinking man, but at that moment, nothing sounded better than a few shots of strong brandy. With a loud, echoing groan, I climbed unsteadily to my feet, my legs threatening to give out beneath me. Grasping at multiple pieces of furniture, I managed to make my way to the study, giving little grunts with each excruciating step. As I entered the small, dark room, I tried very hard not to notice the polished mahogany shelves, alphabetically organized encyclopedias, or the faint scent of rosebuds that lingered in the close air— each a precious gift from my dutiful, devoted little nurse. Suddenly I found it remarkably difficult to catch my breath; my throat swelled painfully, and I swallowed several times against the unbidden surge of emotion.

My trembling fingers fumbled with the latch to the small icebox that I had fashioned in the cave wall, and with much effort, I finally managed to yank it open. Inside the little hole was a small meat pie, two heads of wilted cabbage, a glass pitcher of cream, and one large bottle of good, aged brandy—each smuggled from the kitchens at one point or another. I grabbed the brandy, tucking it securely under my good arm, and bumped the door closed with my hip. The kitchen area, where the shot glasses were kept, was a few rooms down from the study, and my searing muscles finally gave out beneath me at the thought of traveling so far. I collapsed into a plush armchair with a grunt and a hiss of pain, clenching my teeth on the cork and yanking it out with a jerk of my neck. Merely the smell of the stuff burned my nostrils, and I raised it slowly from my face, staring at the yellowed label.

"To you, Mother, wherever you are," I hissed. "Can't thank you enough for this_ blessed _face. I hope you found happiness with that goddamn doctor. Lord knows I couldn't give it to you." With a grimace, I brought the yellowed bottle to my quivering, parched lips.

The cool brown liquid immediately gratified, burning its way down my scorched throat like liquid fire. I shuddered at first, but drank deeply, clutching the bottle to my mouth and guzzling until my throat and lungs seemed ready to split open with pain. Gasping for air, I laughed absentmindedly at the odd sensation of oxygen against my burning tongue. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I felt better already. My stomach did somersaults as it stretched and swelled around the potent liquid, unadjusted to having anything within it. For a moment, I fought off the urge to retch, but steadied myself with another swig. And then another.

With each sip, I felt the hold on my senses weaken, as if the brandy could somehow detach my mind from the rest of my body. It was at once a frightening and comforting sensation— I loathed feeling helpless, but found solace in the bottle's strange ability to numb my pain, both emotional and physical.

My churning stomach, however, did not seem to share my optimistic appraisal of the situation. With a heavy sigh, ending in a hiccup, I decided that perhaps I should eat something, much as I hated to do so. When I was a child, my mother had used meals as a weapon— a punishment for bad behavior. I had never much liked them since, and was constantly aggravated by the necessity of food, often trying to push myself as long as humanly possible before grudgingly swallowing a few bites to assuage my smarting innards. Unfortunately, the demands of my flesh always won over my stubbornness, and it irritated me to no end.

Swaying slightly, I stumbled to my feet and made my way over to the icebox. Still clutching the brandy with one hand, I pulled out the meat pie with the other, and staggered back to my chair with a scowl. I picked at the crust fussily for awhile until a particularly insistent rumble from my stomach encouraged me to take a bite.

Either the brandy had heightened the sensitivity of my taste buds or it was the most delicious morsel of food I'd ever consumed. Suddenly ravenous, I devoured the entire pie rapidly, hardly stopping to catch my breath. When the empty tin lay before me, devoid of every last crumb, I followed the hearty meal up with a deep swallow of brandy. With the entire bottle gone, I cast it aside carelessly and merely sat for a moment, watching a nearby candle in amused fascination through my distorted, blurred vision. Time seemed to crawl as I sat in the stupor, numb and emotionless, while in reality hours passed. Soon I no longer dreaded the temptress that was sleep, and willingly gave myself over to her, forgetting Christine entirely in the muddled chaos of my drunken mind. I slept soundly and, thankfully, was too intoxicated to form coherent dreams.

When I woke again, the pain had returned, more deep-rooted and excruciating than before. It was as if a thick clamp had been fitted to my brain and tightened. The space behind my eyes burned like fire. I groaned, and started as the noise echoed ten times louder to my sensitive ears than I had intended to utter it. The lair spun before my eyes, but whenever I tried to focus on a particular object, my piercing headache would only worsen; eventually I closed them in disgust, fighting the urge to vomit.

_But this time,_ A nasty little voice sneered, _Christine is not here to nurse you back to health. You've brought this upon yourself._

I irritably told the voice to shut up, leaning my skull against the headrest and pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose. Even with my eyes closed, I could see dizzying patches of color and light, as if looking through an elaborate kaleidoscope.

After a few moments of excruciating silence, my heightened sensitivity to sound finally presented itself full-force as I picked out Reyer's anxious, stuttering voice through five levels of stone. He appeared to be quite beside himself, rapping his conductor's baton on his music stand and screaming instructions at the percussionists. Suddenly there was an entire crescendo of voices, all shouting at once— I identified Reyer, Carlotta, Piangi and Firmin before Andre's sharp tone cut them all off. He spoke harshly for a moment before Firmin added his two cents, and then suddenly everyone was screaming again. I pressed my palms to either side of my head and squeezed as if I could force out the searing pain, but I could neither ignore nor purge it. With a growl, I climbed to my feet, strode hastily to where my boat was tied, and flung my cloak over my shoulders. I was not in the mood to tolerate this today. One way or another, I would find a way to silence them before they split my throbbing head in two.

I poled quickly across the lake, trying to ignore the dizzying iridescent light reflected on the water. Perhaps I could find a quiet, dark, secluded passage where I could wait out this headache… if not, I could always drop another set on Carlotta's head, though that course of action would probably only result in more screeching…and then I'd wind up killing her, and then there would be more screeching, and I'd be forced to kill every last one of the damned morons, and then there would be no one to run or perform my opera.

No, I decided with a sigh. I would simply have to search out Madame Giry.

My mind made up, I wound my way through the murky labyrinth and through the chain of tunnels and trap doors which led to Giry's quarters. The room was empty, and for a moment my conscience and suffering body battled for dominance; eventually, my primal need for an abrupt, easy end to pain drowned out my understanding of the sanctity of privacy. I pulled a long, thin strand of twisted wire from my cloak pocket and proceeded to pick the lock. After a few tries, the door swung open with a click, and I slipped into the gloriously dark, silent room, shutting it quietly behind me. With a sigh of relief, I collapsed into the olive armchair, pulling my knees to my chest and resting my head heavily atop them. Within moments, I drifted off to sleep again.

A sharp prodding at my ribs woke me with a start. I yelped, jerked, and looked frantically around before focusing on a cross Madame Giry. She lowered her cane from my chest with a raised eyebrow and a sigh.

"I'm sure you have an explanation of some sort," she said as I opened my mouth to explain. "But it is of little importance. I don't mind you coming in here, but I do wish you would inform me before doing so."

"I apologize," I said, rubbing my hand over my eyes. "I needed somewhere quiet to rest."

Her brow furrowed. "Are you ill?"

"No," I answered quickly. Then with a groan, I collapsed back in the chair. "I… had a bit too much to drink," I admitted between clenched teeth.

Giry's eyes glinted in amusement before going cold again. "I didn't think you were the drinking type," she commented delicately.

"I'm not," I grumbled. "Under the circumstances, I made an exception." I rocked forward with a grunt and rose to my feet. "But I'll leave you to your privacy, Madame—"

"Not so fast." Her cane snapped up to block the exit, and I turned to her warily. Her eyes locked with mine, and I could sense for the first time a deep concern behind the steely blue. "I do not presume to know what went on between you and Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Céline," I growled, closing my eyes to avoid that condescending, maternal gaze.

"No," she interrupted sharply, drawing my reluctant gaze back to her. "You will hear me out this one time, Erik, and then I will be silent and never mention it again." She did not give me a chance to object before continuing. "I do not know what went on between the two of you down there. I do know that Christine was gone for several days, nearly a week, and returned a sobbing wreck. She locked herself in her room and refused to eat or speak with anyone for three days. Even Meg. Even me. She has not been the same girl since." She came closer, staring me dead in the eyes. "So do not presume, Monsieur, that you are the only one who suffers. As a teacher, you have given her a great gift. Do not make the mistake of poisoning the relationship and her potential with your own misgivings. She is a child, Erik… a vulnerable child."

"I'm well aware—" I began.

"Are you?" Giry demanded. She sighed, backing off a bit. "I'm not so sure you are. Just be cautious. You walk on thin ice; tread carefully. If I know one thing, it is this: if you push her too far, you will lose her forever. Neither of you want that. Heed my warning, Erik, for both of your sakes."

I glared at her, my expression unreadable. She had hit a chord deep within me, but I bluntly refused to let it show. "You presume that I do not know the limits of my own student, Madame. I am offended by your lack of faith."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "You are preaching to me about knowing boundaries, Erik? I might not know exactly what went on in that lair of yours, but I have a fairly good idea—"

I slammed her cane down and brushed past her without another word. How _dare_ she preach at me about how to handle my own student, my best friend, the love of my life? No one knew Christine better than I, no one! Least of all her! I was outraged, but a part of me, buried deep down, knew that she spoke the truth.

_A/N: Reviewer response time! Sorry for the brevity of these as well, but like I said, I gotta hurry and get off._

_Inkiepinkie: Meh, I hate fillers, but thanks for understanding. Glad I could shed a new light on the character._

_Hriviel: Yes, "Caged," lol, yet again you were the inspiration. And today you got Kessie going with "No One Would Listen" sobs So beautiful. It was awesome talking with you today; we need to do it more often! _

_Venus725: sticks tongue out at you You're a meanie! LOL. Well thanks for the attempt at a flame, anyways. I do deserve at least ONE, people, come on! sigh of defeat Thank you, my dear, as always, though I highly disagree with you. _

_Shadow Fox Forever: Oh I'm so glad you understood it. I was worried there for a while. I know, I know, sorry, the updates are taking forever, but my muse was vacationing in Paris and she did NOT want to come back. lol_

_Joanieponytail: Aww, Kessie loves kisses! (She doesn't deserve them, though, that naughty muse!) That Kay sequence with Erik's mother made me cry, so I just had to include it in my story. I'm in love with Kay's "Phantom," so expect more references to pop up now and then. I'm trying to inch him towards DJT mentally and emotionally, so I'm glad you noticed! The Bal Masque will be a great deal of fun, I hope. Thanks for the e-mail, by the way!_

_RainsPhantom: panting Hurrying, hurrying! This was the hardest to write of any chapter so far… no idea why. Sorry!_

_Opal Gimstone: Ooh, was it intense? I'd hoped so. Most of Erik's inner thoughts are, so I must be doing something right:) I wish I worked at a library! Or a Barnes and Noble, even… I'm a bookworm. I do love random bursts of inspiration, but muses can be so inconstant it's annoying! Lol_

_LePetiteChristine: And the award for most irrelevant review goes to… drumroll HILARY! LOL. God forbid you actually review the story, child… sigh You promised! _

_Just a phan: Well thanks! I'm thrilled to have so many people who enjoy the story, as I kinda think it sucks. LOL. I fear being sued by the estate of Susan Kay, so here's my email address: If you still want the link, ask for it there. Mmk? _

_The Singing Fox Demon: I know, and I was SO tempted to just make this into an E/C and have Christine return to Erik and continue what they started in Chapter 23… lol. Alas, I promised to stick to the storyline. Another time, though! Thanks for the compliments, ma cherie!_

_Sakume: Okay, so I'm just pessimistic! LOL. Whew, then in that case I'm glad you liked it. You know, if you ever don't like something, please don't hesitate to tell me! I won't be offended!_

_Lady G: Ah, I'll ignore some of those comments on Erik's lovely singing voice and just remember your reconciliation the other night. (He's still gaping) I'm sure you loved this chapter, haha, lots of Erik torment, but REALLY, I hate writing it! pouts_

_Marianne Brandon: gasps and falls to knees bowing The Almighty Phanphic Writer is reading my puny little phic? squeaks I'm honored, but totally unworthy… gapes I-I- thank you! blushes I don't know what to say, just… thank you! LOL._


	26. Let The Spectacle Astound You

_A/N: Hiya, everyone! I would ask how you're all doing, but seeing as though Phantom came out on DVD Tuesday, I think I already know the answer. –grins-_

_Okay, this chapter has been an immense headache for me. It's gone through about three drafts, and I finally settled with this one, much as it will drive you, the readers, insane. Haha. The major problem is that I could have extended this chapter for EIGHTEEN PAGES, or broken it up into two chapters… unfortunately, the second option (far easier for me) leaves you on a cliffie. –grins devilishly- So if it seems that this entire chapter is setting you up to hear one whopper of a tale, it's because it IS… you'll just have to wait until next time to hear it! We'll just say that Erik had QUITE a bit of fun causing chaos; he is the source of all the trouble you will hear about. Alright, done talking… read on, and please don't kill me! –cowers- _

I was convinced, by that point, that Eris herself could not have wreaked such glorious havoc among the Opera's inhabitants. Shaking with suppressed mirth, I stared down from the rafters at the tumultuous spectacle below me. Never before had my brilliance manifested itself with such staggering clarity, but the best part of this little game by far was that not one of the bumbling imbeciles had thought to blame the morning's calamities on the infamous Opera Ghost. For the first time in nearly a month, I found that I was actually enjoying myself... and without Christine, to boot!

Within half an hour, the auditorium had miraculously transformed from a theater into a three-ring circus (appropriately, I developed during that time a maddening craving for popcorn and roasted peanuts). My senses feasted on the glorious sights and sounds that poured from the chaotic mob below me. I leaned back against the wall with a soft, contented sigh, one leg dangling carelessly over the edge of the rafter as I soaked it all in.

The prima donnas, unsurprisingly, were the main attraction of the little fiasco. La Carlotta and La Sorelli stood on opposite sides of the stage, each sobbing and gesturing dramatically to one another, as if their bloodcurdling wails did not adequately express their woe. The Italian diva sniveled into Piangi's shoulder, while he, in turn, exchanged crude threats with the burly blond stagehand who coddled Sorelli. Crowds of supporters huddled around each of the starlets protectively, offering sympathy and condolences— which was, needless to say, precisely what the drama queens desired. Each prima donna explained her side of the story (neither of which was remotely true) at least a dozen times, the details of which grew more extravagant and utterly implausible with each retelling. At one point, Sorelli became so indignant upon overhearing one of Carlotta's accusations that she stormed over to the diva and dealt her a solid smack across her makeup-caked cheek. A horde of Carlotta-devotees flew at her in a rage, only to meet Sorelli's gang of enraged loyalists. A stage-brawl unlike any the Opera Populaire had ever seen burst out shortly after, growing in intensity and populace until nearly every tenant and staff member within earshot had taken a side.

Meanwhile, the ballet rats swarmed into the auditorium in clusters, their round, red little faces locked in enraged scowls. They knew nothing of the prima donnas' woes, nor did they particularly care. Ducking between the legs of their superiors or merely elbowing and shoving their way through the gathered crowd, they collided in the middle of the stage in a tangle of limbs, teeth, tousled hair, and sharp pink nails. For a moment, the elder chorus girls (who had huddled in the wings, deciding to stay out of the divas' scuffle) looked on in shock, exchanging puzzled glances. Suddenly they broke out of their incredulous stupor, breaking into the raging battle. The younger girls, however, refused to be parted. They clawed and bit at the intruders' flesh like rabid animals, no longer capable of distinguishing friend from foe. Yelps of pain erupted from the chorus girls as they retreated quickly back to the wings, their eyes wide in incredulity at the strength of the small army of ferocious ballerinas.

Above the stage, yet another violent brawl had broken out not twenty feet from me. I was cloaked in shadow, tucked securely in the far back corner of the stage, but so caught up were the men involved that I highly doubted that they would have noticed me had I stepped directly into their circle and begun screaming right along with them. The stagehands had formed a ring around the gripper, Dante Marcella, who stood, flustered and shifty-eyed, in the eye of the storm. Another young man, Francois Amer, circled him like a vulture closing in on its prey, occasionally shoving Dante's shoulder or cursing at him, attempting to get a rise out of the younger boy.

"_Lascilo solo, maiale_!" the gangly Italian spat after a particularly harsh blow to his forearm. "I don't want to fight!"

Francois snarled, grabbing the boy by his shirt collar and lifting him slightly from the ground. "No? Well perhaps you shouldn't have been kissing my girl, then, pretty boy." With that, he spat in Dante's eye, and the Italian boy finally fought back, throwing a punch at Francois's face. I watched intently from my spot just above and behind them as the other young men began to cry out triumphantly, boo and hiss as each hammering blow was exchanged. Two of the more scandalous boys began to collect bets as to the winner, their eyes glittering with greed as crumpled notes were tossed onto an upturned prop piece. I was simultaneously fascinated and disgusted by their nonchalance in the face of such brutality, before remembering the same look of excitement in the eyes of young boys as the gypsy's whip cut into my flesh.

I shuddered, and promptly looked away.

The ringleaders of this turbulent spectacle huddled in the orchestra fit, screaming at one another and flailing their arms like drowning men. Reyer and Giry stood face-to-face, their noses mere centimeters from touching. The maestro had gone extremely red, every last vein in his forehead protruding in rage. Giry, however, would not be intimidated; she spat orders at him, trying to get everything under control, and trembled with fury when she was told to be silent, as a woman had no right to order about a man. Meanwhile, Andre was curled up in one of the seats behind them, his arms curled over his fuzzy gray head, rocking back and forth while sobbing pitifully. The Vicomte crouched beside him, desperately trying to tell Andre to get a hold of himself, that his conduct was most unmanly.

I snorted softly. _You are one to talk, Monsieur le Fop. _The thought brought a grin to my face.

Yes, it had been a very enjoyable morning, indeed.

My satisfied smirk only broadened as a bemused Firmin appeared in the doorway to the auditorium. He halted in his tracks, his mouth hanging slightly open as he took in the outrageous sight.

"Wh-what is the meaning of this?" he squawked after a moment of stunned silence, dropping his luggage at the door and bolting down the center aisle. No one paid him any attention, of course, and after several vain attempts to calm the storm, he finally barged past his squabbling colleagues in a huff. He squatted on the organ bench, glowered around the chaotic room, and suddenly slammed his clenched fists down on the keys, producing a deep, booming chord.

"The Opera Ghost!" the ballet rats shrieked collectively, immediately abandoning their hair-pulling, pinching, scratching, kicking and biting. I had to remind myself not to laugh. I didn't have much time to be flattered, though I gave a mock bow at the recognition (if wrongly credited). Suddenly the riotous staff fell silent, turning to the source of the noise.

Everyone's eyes, including my own, settled on the enraged Firmin. He stood up on the organ bench, glaring at each and every one of them, a vein in his neck bulging with fury.

"ENOUGH! THERE IS NO BLOODY OPERA GHOST!" he bellowed, slamming his palm down on the top of the organ. A heavy, incredulous silence hung over all of them as they stared at this strange, furious little man as if he had sprouted tentacles. "What," he panted, his beady black eyes fixating on the blubbering Andre, "In _God's name_ is going on here?"

I sighed in mild disappointment. _Why does God get credit for everything_?

Still, no one spoke. For a moment, I believed that no one could even remember the reason they were here, squabbling like rabid alley cats. I was about to open my mouth and sing _I'm here, the Phantom of the Opera_, just to throw them all into a fit again, but Carlotta thrust the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically and let out a nasal wail before I could get the chance.

"Señora Giudicelli, explain yourself!" Firmin demanded, little flecks of spit bursting from his lips with every crisply annunciated syllable.

I leaned against the dusty wall again with a smug grin, my arms crossed casually over my chest. For awhile I had forgotten the satisfaction of haunting, but now the tingling, rewarding sensation flooded back to me full-force. Sad as it was, I found significant pleasure in causing others pain; I did not feel quite so alone when others were forced to suffer unjustly, if only in small doses as compared to my own torment.

Of course, Carlotta was normally my first target, and this instance was no exception. One of these days she would learn that her incessant exaggerations and egotism did her more harm than good. She wanted the limelight? I was happy to give it to her—at a price.

With elaborate gestures and a voice elevated even more than usual, the Italian diva sniveled her way through the morning's jarring events (exaggerating every detail along the way, of course) while I relaxed in the rafters above her, listening intently to "her side" of the story.

The true story, of course, was quite different from the eyes of the all-seeing, all-hearing Opera Ghost.

_A/N: OMG! OVER 200 REVIEWS! –smothers you all in a huge hug- I LOVE YOU PEOPLE SO MUCH! –open buffet of all the goodies your brilliant minds can imagine-_

_Venus725: Yeah, I'm in love with "No One Would Listen." –sobs- Poor, unhappy Erik! Well, not in this chapter, at least. I was sick of the angst; the poor guy needed to have some fun! Of course I had to bring Madame Giry back… I adore her. I know, it was supposed to be a bit of foreshadowing, and poor, desperate little Erik just can't listen to reason, even from a woman as wise as Giry. –sigh- Ah well, off to watch PonR! –swoons-_

_Hriviel: Yeah, we did! Yay for updates— you, of course, are much more consistent than I am. –hangs head in shame- Not to mention a better writer. Haha… No, I wanted to make it BLATANTLY clear that Erik is not normally a drinking person… the circumstances just called for any means of escape he could find, and he wound up completely smashed and miserable as a result. Tssk, tssk! LOL._

_Inkie Pinkie: I know; hard to picture. Sorry if I portrayed it badly; happy to say I've never been hung over. –grins evilly- Ooh, you'll see what he does to Carlotta… it's very impish of him, and deliciously wicked! Muahaha! _

_Joanieponytail: -scrunches up nose- Yes, WAY better than the morphine addiction. I'm purposely ignoring that little detail from Kay, pretending it doesn't exist. It's bad of me, I know, but I just hate it, and would rather not acknowledge it. The occasional drinking spell seems much more tame to me. –shrugs- And thank you… I think my own maternal side came out in Madame Giry subconsciously. He needed to hear that, even if he wouldn't listen. –sighs- And believe me, Christine isn't going to get off easy. I'll continue the story a few chapters after "Down Once More" to conclude, ending in her death and funeral. –sniffles- Well, you'll see…_

_Shadow Fox Forever: Mmm, yes, drunk Erik… ooh, the possibilities! LOL. –snaps fingers- Drat, if only I'd been there! Haha. I can't wait for "Masquerade" either; he's so great in "Why So Silent?"… that arrogant little stride of his… -swoons-_

_Opal Gimstone: LOL… -huggles- There, there, dear. We all have computer troubles at one point or another. Mine, for example, has been rather fussy about the internet connection lately. –sighs- But I would trade a fussy computer for a compliant muse any day! Kessie has been lounging on the couch drinking Cherry Coke slushies and watching Julia Roberts chick flicks for the past week and a half. –shakes head- Yeah, poor Erik, mean Madame Giry… haha, that's about the gist of it. She's not trying to be mean, though… just trying to be helpful in an overly-intrusive and maternal way. _

_RainsPhantom: Aww, well thanks. –calms down- I feel bad when I take forever to update. Haha, I'm such a hypocrite, constantly yelling at other authors to update while my story sits in the corner of my computer gathering dust. –shakes head- I'm so bad… lol._

_Marianne Brandon: -still gaping incredulously- I can't believe you're actually tolerating this horrible little story, but wow... um, thanks? LOL… As of yesterday evening, I've seen Phantom six times. –grins and does "obsessive compulsive" dance- I'm crazy, I know, but what can I say? I love it!_

_Sakume: -sniffles- Wow, that was beautiful… LOL! You're a poet! –giggles- Aww, you make me smile. Not cheesy at all; I appreciate it! –hugs-_

_Sperry Dee: Auugh, this thing hates me! Sure, I'll email you as soon as I update. Thank you… -blushes- Amazing, no, but I'm still flattered. :) _

_Noni-Noelle: -dodges the flying objects while cackling- LOL, yes, yes, my dear, I know you think I'm crazy, but REALLY, I mean, come on, this story is terrible! Tee hee! –takes it back before you hold Erik captive and never let me see him again- Alright, alright, not terrible, but not good, anyways. –grins- Better?_

_The Singing Fox Demon: LOL, well thank you! Glad I could make your day. –shakes head in disbelief and mumbles something about all of you being easily amused- I know! I want more E/C moments, but I believe my line at the end of chapter 23 prevents it… he can't lay eyes on Christine until the Masquerade. –sobs- So I had fun letting him haunt everyone else… kills the time, anyway. ;)_

_BumbleOBee: -smiles secretively- Oh, you'll see… I'm sticking to canon, but the story will continue… I'm not promising anything, but… well… you'll see. –clamps mouth shut and refuses to say another word- _

_Alli Lynn: -eyes bulge- This cannot POSSIBLY be happening! Another new reviewer? With friends who read my story? –passes out cold- I-I-I'm in shock. Th-thank you? Wow. Just… wow. Yeah, you don't have to be a member to review… thanks so much! I appreciate it more than I can say._

_Sandy: -cuddles- Well, you said if I updated it might make you feel better… here it is! I love you, sweetie… You're my bestest friend and favorite cousin! –blows a kiss- Thank you so much for taking the time to read this –cough-lousy-cough- phic of mine… I'll make a phan out of you yet! Just wait till I get to your house this summer, babe… Moulin Rouge and Phantom, all the way! Plus, you still have to see the rest of the Star Wars movies. ;) –bribes- Ewan's in three of them… -grins-_

_LePetiteChristine: Haha, yes, thank you, m'dear. I'm still shocked at your writing ability… I still say you write as well as someone twice your age. –groans- I need to finish Kay, like, really bad… I just got to Nadir. –sighs- Maybe after I've posted…_

_Anonymous: Wow, I think you were my 200th reviewer, and I have no idea who you are! –sobs- Well, thank you SO much… -hugs you anyways- No, never heard of it… but I'll go check out the lyrics as soon as I'm done here. Thanks again!_

_Asia1st: -GASP- Omg, you're right! –slaps hand- BAD ME! I need to check my historical facts, huh? –blushes and grins- Alright, I'll go back and change it… plenty of other operas which debuted earlier. Thanks for the notice! I always need people to catch little errors like that. _

_I'm still in shock, guys… over 200 reviews, and more reviews in this last chapter than ever before. –shakes head in disbelief- THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, a million times and more! _


	27. The Domino Effect

_A/N: Whew! This chappie gave me so much trouble, and I'm still somewhat nervous about it; however, I've made you wait long enough, so I figured I'd go ahead and post it. (A certain DVD has had me rather distracted, too) It starts out pretty angsty, but no worries— Naughty!Erik prevails throughout the rest of this rather lengthy chapter. Hope you like it!_

_Disclaimer: Sorelli belongs to Leroux—I had to give him another nod for his genius in creating this brilliant masterpiece. _

I wanted Christine.

It was the one thought that penetrated the pained obscurity of that endless afternoon. I ached to feel the cool, smooth skin of her palm against my burning forehead, to hear her sweet voice murmuring words of comfort in my ear, to stare into those chocolate brown depths until my self-inflicted pain dissolved into a distant memory. "If only's" ran rampant through the fevered haze of consciousness as I played our heated love scene over and over in my mind's eye, adding to and altering the unfortunate ending to sate my tormented, hungry soul. Perhaps it was the alcohol trickling through my veins, but I found myself drawn unwittingly to the mirror of her dressing room. _Just a glimpse_… my spirit was starved for a glance of her perfect form, her silken curls and creamy skin…

But the room was empty.

Fighting viciously against a sudden onslaught of unbidden tears, I gnashed my teeth and whirled my cloak, turning sharply on my heel to stalk in the opposite direction. A torrent of emotions surged within my fevered, distorted psyche. Anger, as usual, was among the most powerful, flowing easily from my twisted soul. She was probably off somewhere with her _precious_ vicomte; I could just picture them picnicking on the grassy shore of a sparkling lake, talking and laughing and kissing…

It was at that moment, when my fury reached its climax, boiling up within me until it threatened to burst from my veins, that Carlotta's guttural squawking reached my sensitive ears. I clutched my head in pain, the already-unbearable noise amplified to excruciating heights in the aftermath of that damned hangover. Crying out in pain, I stumbled in the dark, open palms pressed firmly to my ears. It did little good. The diva belted the fifth aria with zealous abandon, her voice spiraling ever upward until I was sure every mirror within the Opera would shatter. Whimpering softly, I retreated within the confines of my conscious, reduced to acting on primitive instinct. There was no way to fight the hideous, piercing noise; I settled with my final option (aside from fainting), and bolted.

Unbridled fury coursed through my veins like searing magma as the voice grew fainter behind me. My pace slowed until I stood still, hunched against the wall to my left. I wiped the sweat from my burning eyes and cursed, trembling with rage.

Since when had we switched roles— that I, the terrifying Phantom of the Opera, should flee the auditorium in tears of pain while Carlotta remained, squawking the aria which should have been Christine's to perform in the first place? And since when did the managers have the right to ignore my commands simply because they did not feel like complying? And since when did Madame Giry get the nerve to scold me like a disobedient child about something which she knew absolutely nothing about? And SINCE WHEN did a bloody goddamned spoiled rotten VICOMTE get away with snatching my beloved pupil right from my arms while I slumped away to lick my wounds like a whipped dog?

Since when had the Opera slipped so far out of my control, the marionettes rebelling against their puppeteer after all these long years?

Damn it all… damn every last one of them to Hell! I couldn't take it any more! It was my opera house, my staff, my home, my Christine, and MY RULES! _Mine!_ They would either obey me, or face the consequences. One way or another, I would burn that concept into every last one of the imbeciles' brains. Too long had I allowed Mademoiselle Daaé to distract me from the task at hand; the Opera Populaire needed immediate intervention. I would take it upon myself to guide it steadily to unprecedented prestige, far and beyond the expectations of the Parisian aristocracy… of the entire_ world_. The Opera Populaire would soar to new heights under my rigorous supervision and direction. But first, my staff needed to learn their lesson the hard way; several times had I attempted to coax them politely into obedience— repeatedly I had been ignored. The time had come to unleash chaos within the stone walls of my domain. At last, I would fulfill the threat which too long had hung over their pompous heads…

At last, a disaster beyond their imaginations would occur.

And yet again, it would begin with Carlotta Giudicelli. It did not help that she was my least favorite person within the Opera House (or the world, for that matter), but her reverberating voice was additional fuel for my unbridled rage. Collecting my wits and steeling my nerves against the anticipated headache, I clutched the corner of my cloak in one fisted hand and ran back toward the auditorium. This time I was prepared for the onslaught of splintering pain which her voice inflamed within my temples; I gritted my teeth and slipped hastily through a trap door and down a winding staircase before stopping momentarily for breath at a heavy wooden door. I fumbled in my pockets for the ring of keys, and produced it with a shaking hand. Giry, at least, had been useful for something. Swallowing against the pain, I finally clasped the third copper key and jammed it into the lock. The squeak of rusted hinges was drowned out by Carlotta's shrieking (though the two sounds were so similar anyway, it mattered very little). I moaned under my breath as I slipped through, slamming the door shut behind me. Separated from her shrill voice by the thick barrier, I breathed a sigh of relief. The crisp, frigid air of the cellars was a welcome change from that of the stuffy rafters; my head began to clear, the splitting pain dissolving as the beginnings of a plan took root in my mind.

The normal treatment simply would not suffice under these circumstances. Desperate times called for desperate measures. I had never been an army man, a general of troops in battle, but in my youth I had devoured several autobiographies and historical records of such men. In between the vivid descriptions of bloodshed and battle cries, the shrieks of dying horses and the thunder of cannon fire, I had fought against the overwhelming urge to retch, continually assured of the flaws of mankind. At first, I had tucked the gory recollections onto the dusty upper shelf with other untouched books, but as an older man had later taken them down to study them again in detail. In between the lines, there were lessons to decode—unspoken truths hidden in the blood-soaked fields of the centuries. Loyalty, honor, sacrifice… words easily spoken, and not often witnessed. But there were darker truths as well… betrayal, treason, loss…lessons I had learned well by that point. Above all, men were weak. Easily corrupted, bribed, and used. From these accounts I learned how to unite a group of mismatched men or tear apart a loathed enemy. The former I had used to harmonize my performers onstage; the latter I would now apply to make them regret the day they ever decided to ignore their commander's instructions.

Throughout history, the best way to destroy a group of adversaries was to create inner-conflict, a civil war of sorts. Once the enemy had fallen prey to chaos, it could be easily conquered, and would gratefully accept the order which came from a strong dictator's leadership. _This_ was the lesson which stuck in the foreground of my mind as I headed for Carlotta's dressing room.

It was a delicate operation. I preferred to deal Carlotta a slow, painful and ultimately fatal wound to her inflated ego, but then, I wasn't picky. I just wanted her to suffer. My best bet was to convince the diva that someone else was on her heels, ready to steal her limelight after one faulty performance.

My thoughts instantly turned to Christine, the prima donna's only immediate threat. I shook my head fervently. I would not drag her into this mess; according to Madame Giry, I had already caused her to suffer enough.

Shuddering with guilt, I pushed all thoughts my pupil away and tried desperately to focus on the task at hand. My mind played over the possible victims of this devious and sticky little prank before finally settling on La Sorelli. She was as quick tempered and self-absorbed as the Italian diva, and ten times as talented. Sorelli had been the prima ballerina (and Monsieur Levefre's mistress) for nearly six seasons, and therefore had seniority over Signora Giudicelli. She was the perfect candidate for my little hoax… and perhaps, just perhaps, I could snag one of the new managers in the process.

A thousand ideas suddenly exploded in my mind at the appealing thought, until finally they spun themselves into a complex web which encompassed nearly every inhabitant of the Opera Populaire. Goose bumps rose along my arms and neck at the prospect of inflicting such rampant chaos; with just a few subtle maneuvers, I could have my revenge on every last one of the ignorant fools. They were like a line of dominos; by tapping the first one ever so lightly, I could send the entire chain crashing down.

And crash they would. And then, with impeccable timing, the ubiquitous Opera Ghost would arrive to sweep up the shards, and with them build a masterpiece.

I had no time to lose.

With a malicious grin, I doubled my pace, whirling around a corner and stampeding down a flight of winding stone steps.

A single passage connected the ballet dormitories and the hallway outside the dressing rooms. Unfortunately, Carlotta's dressing room was very near to the backstage area, and there was no way to enter without spending a few seconds in the open. Even worse, the door to the passage was even further from Carlotta's room than the trap door which Christine and I had used earlier. Rehearsals for _Rigoletto_ had drawn the nearly 200 crew members to the backstage area, and it would be impossible to slip through a main hallway unnoticed, even for me.

I paused for a moment, considering the situation. Within a minute I had constructed a plan to draw the attention of everyone to the stage. If I could create a spectacle to distract the stagehands for only a moment or two, I could slip into Carlotta's room without hassle. It would be simple enough; if I just dropped another set on the diva's bloated head, she would create enough of a ruckus to keep the crew occupied…

But when I reached the rafters, another opportunity presented itself, and it was far too good to pass up.

One of the stagehands, a young Italian named Dante, had abandoned his post as gripper, busying himself with a ballet rat in a shadowed corner. He had left a lighted cigarette burning on the edge of one of the rafters, its glowing butt singeing the top of the wooden plank. I crinkled my nose at the smell, and promptly flicked it off the edge of the rafter and into a pile of hay on the stage below.

"Whoops," I whispered, watching as a wisp of grey smoke immediately began to curl upwards from the stage. "How clumsy of me." With a grin and a twirl of my cloak, I climbed quickly to my hiding place at the end of the hallway from Carlotta's dressing room door.

I didn't have to wait long. Within moments, the shrieks of the dancers rang out from onstage, followed by Reyer's frantic calls for water. Those who had been lingering in the hall ran to the stage to watch or offer help. Beaming at my brilliance, I crept easily through the hall with a casual, disconcerted stride. The Opera Ghost had returned at last!

I was careful to lock the door behind me, the memory of my last close encounter with Carlotta's assistant still fresh in my mind. I had no intentions of ducking into her wardrobe again like a common thief; it was quite an embarrassing predicament for an accomplished prankster such as myself. No, this time I was prepared—I could not afford to make any mistakes.

A candelabrum glinted in the dull light that filtered through the cracks in the door. I fumbled in the dark for a match, struck it, and quickly lit the wicks with a practiced hand. With just that small amount of illumination, I set contentedly about my work.

The gifts which the managers had showered upon the prima donna as bribes were still piled upon a desk in the far corner of the room. I approached the display with a grimace— why the hopeless twits were willing to spend hundreds of thousands of francs to keep the obnoxious diva and still deny me my salary was beyond my comprehension. With a disgruntled sigh, I scooped up several velvet boxes of expensive jewelry, tucking them into my cloak for safe keeping. They would look much more stunning against Christine's ivory complexion anyway. I opened a heart-shaped box and popped one of Carlotta's rich imported chocolates into my mouth, immediately thinking of Madame Giry. My scowl deepened— under any other circumstances, I would have taken the box of delectable candies and delivered them to my assistant, but her words still stung like a fresh lash to my soul. Shaking my head, I merely doused them with a bottle of transparent hairspray which I found on Carlotta's vanity, and shut the lid.

Chewing the inside of my cheek pensively, I surveyed the room for opportunities to inflict further damage. My gaze fixated on her dresser, and I approached it thoughtfully, prying the doors open. The wide wardrobe was stuffed with colorful, elaborate costumes from several recent performances, along with the eight gowns intended for her starring role in _Rigoletto_. I fingered the luxurious fabric absently, my eyes wandering to the drawers below. Crouching down, I opened the top drawer a crack and peered warily inside.

I shut it quickly, a blush creeping up my neck and cheeks. I had very little experience in the area, but I knew women's undergarments when I saw them. The action, however, inspired an idea in my mind… a twisted, dare I say _puerile_ idea…

Giggling like a naughty schoolboy, I opened the drawer again, and pulled out the two corsets inside of it. For a moment, I eyed the contraptions perplexedly— however did women manage to figure out the odd arrangement of laces and starched fabric? I scowled, unwilling to ever accept the fact that Carlotta could comprehend something that I did not, and began to tug absently at the laces until I believed I understood how the whalebone suit worked; the leather strings were tightened around the woman's figure and secured in a bow at her lower back. Feeling rather proud of my discovery and tucking the information away for later use (and blushing profusely at the thought), I finally pulled a sharp switch knife from its place at my belt. I set about shortening the laces, cutting neatly through the white leather. When nearly twenty centimeters of the thick string were coiled in my palm, I replaced the corsets in their respective drawer and shut it carefully.

I laughed outright at the mental image forming in my mind: Carlotta would rise the next morning and call for her assistant to help her dress, only to find that, miraculously, she had gained a significant amount of weight overnight. She would then laugh it off, claiming that the contraption must have shrunk in the wash, and try the other, only to find the same result. It would be a glorious moment indeed.

I scanned the room one last time, feeling the need to leave one more little souvenir of my visit. I found myself drawn to her broad, cluttered vanity. A vase of pink roses, stacks of cards, a large makeup purse, and six bulbs of throat spray sat atop the white wood surface, and I studied them for a moment. Of course, so much could be done with the throat spray alone, but while Carlotta had yet to decipher the cause of her croaking episode in _Il Muto_, I did so hate to repeat a prank after it had already fulfilled its purpose. Instead I snatched up the makeup pouch, peering curiously inside. The floral bag was stuffed with several flasks of makeup, in all different varieties and colors. The diva was famed for caking on the stuff in vast quantities, but I had not realized until that point that so many different types of makeup even existed. It seemed remarkably superfluous to me, and mildly disappointing, for I knew that most women, including Christine, felt the need to mask their beauty with the thick substances. I remembered well the sienna dust which had highlighted Christine's shining eyes as I sang to her of the Music of the Night, but thought her equally radiant without it. Carlotta, on the other hand, was justified in her excessive use; she had not been blessed with Christine's beauty, to say the very least.

As I fingered through the numerous casks of makeup, it suddenly dawned on me that the annual Bal Masque was less than a week away. In the past I had always attended, garbed in abandoned costumes which had been discarded after their respective performances. It was one of my favorite times of the year; for once, no one noticed that I was different, an outsider. On that one night yearly I was just another member of the Parisian aristocracy, come to dine and drink and dance among my peers. It was the life I had longed for and dreamed about since I was a small child, and on that one night, I allowed myself to live out my fantasy, stepping unabashedly into the part. Once, I had even been so daring as to ask Madame Giry to dance, thrilled when she did not recognize me behind my mask of Caesar Augustus. This year, however, I had quite a different plan for my costume… something much darker, much more appealing to my current mood. As my fingers came to rest over a cylinder of black eye makeup, I realized that I still had yet to make the Poe-inspired costume, let alone gather the required materials for my mask and face. I tucked the black makeup into the breast pocket of my shirt for later, then decided to simply take the entire bag as an afterthought. Hopefully, with the lack of both a fitting corset and makeup, Carlotta would stay cooped up in her room all day tomorrow, and I would not be forced to tolerate any more of her "singing."

My little hoax nearly complete, I added the finishing touch to the scene, snatching a sheet of paper and a quill from Carlotta's desk. With a steady, curving hand, I mimicked an adolescent girl's handwriting, and smiled as I finished the letter:

_Signora Giudicelli,_

_As a fellow performer, I only thought it fair that you know the goings-on and private arrangements recently made between Monsieur Andre and myself. Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered, I'm afraid; Andre has assured me the lead in nearly every performance next season, which regrettably means he and Monsieur Firmin will be letting you go within the month. Unfortunately, I believe they were correct in asking you to "Sing, Prima donna, ONCE more." After the little _Il Muto _incident, they were forced to face the reality that you are not as young and vibrant as you once were. Please do not take this as an insult, dear; Monsieur Andre and I have made exclusive arrangements, providing I offer him what he asks of me. This must come as a shock to you, Signora, and I apologize for any inconveniences, but do ask that you refrain from making a fool of yourself and complaining to the managers, for if that is indeed the case, you might not last the week, and I know how hard you've worked at _Rigoletto_. I do hope you'll understand, and perhaps try auditioning in Rome? Of course, the understudy roles should still be available for audition if you wish to stay in Paris. I remain, dearest Signora,_

_Most respectfully yours,_

_Sorelli Da Gama _

I couldn't withhold a sinister chuckle as I tucked the letter into the corner of Carlotta's mirror and turned to the door.

_Now for Sorelli_, I mused as I slipped silently through the door and ran to the end of the hall. Frantic screams and sobs still rang out from the auditorium, and I smirked at my handiwork. With any luck, perhaps the entire stage had caught fire, and the production would have to be postponed…

The glorious shrieks of my disobedient staff followed me as I crept through the tunnel to the dormitories. I could simply have stopped there, allowing Carlotta to attempt her own vengeful acts upon the prima ballerina, but it would be better for the chaotic aspect of the whole hoax if each accused the other of crimes never committed. Confusion and denial would be additional fuel for their inevitable fury.

While half of the ballet rats had scurried off to watch the fiasco in the auditorium, the younger girls had apparently been ordered by Madame Giry to stay put. Two of the braver and more rebellious girls had snuck off to observe the scene, and were just returning to spread the news to the rest of the ballerinas as I worked my way through the crawlspace in the ceiling above their heads. I paused to stare through a grate at the pastel-clad girls, equally interested in hearing news from the stage.

"What's going on?" A petite redhead named Madeleine asked immediately as the two girls shut the door behind them.

"Ooh, it's absolutely marvelous gossip," one of the wide-eyed, breathless girls replied as the others gathered in a cluster around her. "Nina apparently did not go to the lavatory as she claimed…" Murmurs broke out from the other girls, but were silenced as the other spy elaborated.

"She snuck up to the rafters to see the gripper, Dante Marcella—"

"WHAT?" Three of the girls screamed simultaneously.

"But… that's impossible! Dante and I have been seeing each other for nearly a month!"

"Liar! He and I have been meeting every Tuesday since October!"

"You're both having delusions of grandeur; Dante proposed to _me_ not three days ago!"

The three girls glared at one another, incapable of believing that they had been fooled by the young Don Juan.

"You've been seeing Dante behind my back, and I never knew it? What kind of friend are you?"

"Me? You knew damn well that I sneak up to the rafters all the time— what, did you think I went up there to enjoy the scenery?"

"You two-timing little bitch!"

"Whore!"

"Slut!"

The three girls swapped insults and began to weep, turning to their friends for comfort and support. Soon the room was divided into three groups of loyalists, each of which exchanged threats before departing the room in a huff. I simply sat there for a moment, staring down at the empty room, before bursting into peals of triumphant laughter. This was going even better than anticipated! The dominos were toppling in every which direction, while I stood above it all, watching the spectacle gleefully.

I continued on to Sorelli's dressing room in a considerably cheerful mood, stifling the urge to whistle as I walked. Fortunately, the passage opened directly into her room on a hidden hinge, and unsurprisingly, Sorelli had hurried off to the stage to investigate the riotous situation. I entered her dressing room with a contented sigh, staring around the room pensively. She had obviously left in a hurry, for the gas lamps were still lit, and she seemed to have abandoned writing a letter midway through. I decidedly ignored the note; I had come to stir up chaos, not pry into her personal affairs. I knew my boundaries, and respected them. Instead, I went immediately to work, placing myself in the mindset of the enraged diva.

When Carlotta was angry, she became immensely destructive, shattering everything breakable within reach. Keeping this in mind, I began to knock vases of flowers from their spots on shelves and end tables, watching in fascination as the stained glass shattered into thousands of pieces on the hardwood floor. Puddles of green water gathered around the crystal shards, creating a beautiful and distorted reflection of the candlelight. I stared at my own reflection in the shimmering water before turning quickly away to complete my task.

I took a tube of bright red lipstick from the pouch of makeup I'd stolen from Carlotta's vanity, and proceeded to smear it across Sorelli's mirror in large, bold letters that read "VIVA LA CARLOTTA." Stepping back to admire the damage, I nodded my approval. Indeed, the Italian diva was not smart enough to inflict such clever pranks upon the prima ballerina as I had done to her, so I let the room be, slipping back through the wall with a satisfied grin.

I had but one task to complete before I retired contentedly to my lair. Too long had the managers run unchecked, denying my polite and amiable requests. While Firmin was away on business at the opera house in London, Andre attempted to keep order among the staff all by himself. I needed only to cut off the head of the Opera House before the rest of the body went limp and useless, falling prey to disorder. Fortunately, I knew just the right piece of information to bring the obnoxious dope to his knees.

Upon setting foot within the Opera Populaire, both managers had immediately fallen into a trance, completely spellbound by the beauty of the chorus girls. Thank God, Madame Giry had immediately warned them against trying anything with Christine or Meg, but by the end of the first scene, each man had found a favorite girl or two, whom they cornered after the raging success of _Hannibal_. Of course, their wives knew absolutely nothing about their relationships with these chorus girls; the women were almost as thick-headed as their husbands (they must have been to marry such witless imbeciles). Now seemed like a better time than any to inform Madame Andre of her husband's most recent romp with none other than La Sorelli herself.

I headed directly for the managers' office, which was closed and locked. With a sigh, I pulled out the hairpin and quickly worked the lock, hurrying inside before anyone could see me. Settling comfortably in the large armchair behind Andre's desk, I pulled out a sheet of his own personal stationary, and proceeded to write a note to his wife, describing with painfully vivid detail his recent affair with Mademoiselle Da Gama. I made sure to add a few grammatical errors and stutter slightly as I wrote, apologizing frequently as if Andre himself had suddenly decided to heed his conscience and tell his wife of his betrayal. Of course, even a mindless hen such as Madame Andre would not take such a revelation lightly; I was sure that the haughty little man would get quite an earful when he returned home.

Positively beaming at my cleverness, I sealed the envelope with Andre's personal seal and dropped it in the canvas bag of letters to be delivered that evening. With a final glance around the office, I swept outside and to the nearest tunnel unheeded, unable to remove the smirk from my face. I had tasted revenge, and it was very sweet indeed. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the inevitable, and watch as chaos unfolded before my very eyes.

_A/N: -yawns- Wow, it's getting late. I'd better hurry up and post this…_

_RainsPhantom: Haha, yeah, a cliffie… but hey, now you know what caused everything to happen, so you can go back and reread, and it won't be a cliffie anymore! Okay:)_

_SexySarah: Well thank you! They're my two favorite characters, so that's quite a compliment. YAY for new reviewers! –hands out cookies-_

_Hriviel: Well now you know! Erik's so naughty… I just had to capture his "puerile" side; it's too cute. I love his sexy smirk. Lol. I'm SO SAD that Haunted is done! EVERYONE GO READ AND REVIEW IT!_

_The Singing Fox Demon: Yeah, I'm so sick and tired of Christine… unfortunately, she's basically all Erik ever thinks about, so I had to include her somehow. I'm glad you like the concept… hope I didn't butcher it too badly!_

_Venus725: Yeah, now you get it! Haha. I love devilish Erik too— I must admit, I swoon at that little smirk he gives while strangling Buquet… lol._

_Sandy: I DID update because I love you so very much! I felt like I needed to do something to make you feel better… did it work? I love you too, sweetie; feel better! Go rent Phantom! It always works for me! Lol_

_AliciaRoseM: Aww, thank you! –does new reviewer dance- I'm so SPOILED! You guys are too nice! I'm not giving away the ending, but I'll tell you this: I am sticking with the ALW movie ending, but I'll write an epilogue which should make just about everyone happy in one way or another. Mmk?_

_Symphony: LOL! Oh wow, that made me laugh! Thank you— Erik really wanted those munchies! –does new reviewer dance again and tosses cookies merrily- Wow, SO MANY newcomers! I love you people!_

_Miralys: Oh GOOD, someone who speaks Italian! No, by all means, PLEASE, I need to hear this stuff! I hate it when I make mistakes— it was just stupid of me to spell "Signora" wrong; I speak Spanish, so it came naturally. Sorry about that! I'll go back and fix it ASAP!_

_Haizea: Ah, so good to see you back again! –smiles and waves- Enjoying Kay's "Phantom," I hope? I love it… No need for apologies; I'm just glad to see you're still reading this humble little story of mine! Thanks so much!_

_LePetiteChristine: Allo, poppet. LOL, I'm so easily amused. Anyway, thanks for reviewing, dear. Hopefully this was better suited to your taste length-wise? –groans- When are you going to update? Hurry, hurry!_

_Shadow Fox Forever: Mmm, yes, fun… -tries not to think about it and fails miserably- Ah well. I'm hurryin', I'm hurryin'!_

_Joanieponytail: Yay! Have I mentioned that I love your reviews? So detailed and helpful… -happy sigh- I'm glad you liked it… no matter how much fun Erik's having, I get the sense that the painful memories always plague and taunt him. –sniffles- The poor baby. BUT I tried to let him be naughty and have as much fun as possible sneaking about and causing trouble unheeded. Hope you liked the change in tone— I was getting tired of the constant brooding and Christine-inspired angst! And to answer your question, yes, I will be including "No One Would Listen," because it's so CUTE and utterly heartbreaking!_

_Erik'sangel527: Why thank you! –smiles- I wanted to start with little Christine to give the characters a background… -shrugs- I'm glad you liked it!_

_Floridagirl1025: Thanks! Hope you find the rest to be equally good! –crosses fingers-_

_MarikIshtarYPT: Aww, thanks! I'll try and update quicker, but finals are coming up, so no promises. Oh, believe me, I know about PotO obsession… I stayed up way too late last night watching the movie with a friend, getting her hooked. Lol. It's awesome!_

_Sakume: Aw, it doesn't matter how long the review is! I'm happy to get all kinds of reviews, especially from you. Thanks so much for the continued support! –huggles-_

_LoveroftheArts: LOL… wow! Woo hoo! –dances around happily- I made someone laugh! I feel all special and tingly! –grins- You've made my day! _

_GreenGirl13: Awesome! That was the point; I'm trying to paint a picture for the readers of what Erik's seeing and hearing, so I'm glad it's working:)_

_Nidia: Hola, amiga! Es tan cómico… mis amigos no hablan español, y no entienden lo que escribiste, pero yo sí (estoy tan orgullosa). Mil gracias para tus palabras amables… me encanta la historia de Erik, y es muy divertido escribirla, y estoy alegre que te gusta mi versión. Esta historia estaba basado en la pelicula de 2004 con Gerard Butler, pero tambien el libro de Gaston Leroux y "Phantom" de Susan Kay. Si lo quieres "Phantom," puedo darte el version de Internet, pero está en inglés. Lo siento si mi español no es perfecta… solo la he hablado para cuatro años. Muchas gracias, y espero que continues de leer! –abrazos!- _

_-smirks at those of you who don't speak Spanish- Haha, I'm so proud of myself. Alright, it's almost eleven, and I have school tomorrow, so I'm going to bed. G'night everyone! Please don't forget to drop me a review— who knows, maybe I'll update sooner next time! Muahaha. Thanks so much! _


	28. One Love, One Lifetime

_A/N: -sings Imperial March- Alright, for those of you who have been living in a hole (no offense, Erik darling), Star Wars Episode III comes out this evening, and I am one of THE biggest Star Wars geeks ever to walk the planet! –squee- So for the next week or so, I have obligations to that galaxy far, far away, and I'm afraid PotO will have to be pushed to second place momentarily. Hence, the SUPER QUICK UPDATE! –gasp- OMG! LOL. So enjoy, don't hate Raoul too much, and remember that it's all Christine's fault! _

_Disclaimer: Gaston's, Gaston's, Gaston's, yada yada yada… -makes a face- You know the drill!_

Carlotta finished sniveling her way through her exaggerated accusations, turning a puffy, pouting red face to the increasingly bewildered Firmin. With the conclusion to the diva's prolonged recollection, murmurs began to break out among the gathered staff. Sorelli's sobbing had only increased in volume since her rival began the tale; she was capable only of shaking her head in denial.

Swallowing several times and wiping at his sweaty brow, Firmin finally turned his head to the hysterical prima ballerina. "Mademoiselle Da Gama," he said as calmly as he could manage. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

All eyes shifted to Sorelli as she lifted her beautiful, tear-streaked face from the stagehand's shoulder. "They are l-lies, Monsieur!" she sobbed, shuddering violently and glaring daggers at Carlotta. "I did nothing of the sort… I c-came to see what the f-fuss was about in the auditorium, and returned to find my room in sh-shambles!" Her voice broke, a fresh stream of tears cutting its way down her cheeks. She pointed a trembling finger at Carlotta, narrowing her piercing green eyes. "_Her_ name was written across my mirror in her own lipstick!"

"Vich you STOLE vrom my vanity, you zittle lying twerp!" Carlotta crowed indignantly, stomping her foot.

"I did no such thing!" Sorelli screamed, lunging at the diva before the man who had been comforting her grabbed her arms in restraint. Positively seething, the ballerina turned her blazing emerald eyes to Andre, who was still curled in a ball, oblivious to the conflict around him. "Ask him!" she cried desperately, her eyes flashing in triumph. "Ask Monsieur Andre where I was yesterday morning! He knows I was not snooping around that Italian bitch's dressing room!"

All murmurs were suddenly hushed, eyes swinging collectively to the weeping manager.

A muscle in Firmin's neck twitched as he, too, looked upon his partner. "Andre?" he pressed, his voice tight and abnormally high-pitched. "Can you indeed verify that Mademoiselle Da Gama was not capable of vandalizing the Signora's dressing room?"

The frizzy-headed manager did not appear to hear Firmin's question. The vicomte, who still knelt before him, sighed and prodded his shoulder pointedly. Andre jumped as if startled from a deep sleep, looking wildly around the room.

"What the hell is going on here?" he demanded, his entire body shaking uncontrollably.

"That's what I'd like to know!" Firmin nearly shouted, a vein in his forehead beginning to bulge. "Answer the question! Were you in the presence of Mademoiselle Da Gama yesterday morning prior to rehearsals?"

Andre's face suddenly drained of color, his eyes bulging slightly. For a moment, he looked as if he might faint, guilt plastered across his sagging features, before he sucked in a shuddering breath. His eyes darted wildly from Sorelli to Firmin and back again. His mouth fell open and closed several times, but the only sound that came from his pooched lips was a strangled squeak, like a mouse being crushed by a boa constrictor. I came very close to having to leave, for I was sure that my lungs would burst at any moment from withholding screams of laughter. I bit the inside of my lip until it filled with the hot, metallic taste of blood, grinding my teeth to loosen the pain in my clenched jaw.

"Tell them!" Sorelli demanded suddenly, breaking the deafening silence. "Tell all these sons of bitches, Andre! Tell them what you told me last night!"

"I would advise you to hold your tongue, Mademoiselle!" Firmin spat, his jaw tightening in fury. "Andre, I grow tired of asking this. We all know your bloody secret, so humor me and answer the question! Were you or were you not having sexual relations with Mademoiselle Da Gama early yesterday morning?"

A pin could have dropped in the auditorium, and every one of its two hundred occupants would have heard it clearly. A few mouths fell open in shock, and several of the seamstresses crossed themselves dutifully. I was almost positive that they could all hear my wheezing breaths as I tried very hard not to fall off the rafters from the impact of the laughter that seized my entire body. Clamping one hand over my nose and mouth, I wiped my tear-filled eyes with the other. This was too good to be true!

Andre's loud, ragged breathing only intensified as his wild eyes roamed the room for any sign of help, of escape…

Finally, it was Madame Giry who lost her temper. Her cane came slamming down onto the wooden floor, making everyone jump. "Enough of this!" she commanded, ascending the steps to the stage where she could glare around at everyone involved. "This has gone on long enough." She pointed the tip of her cane at Carlotta, then at Sorelli, and each of the managers. "You, you, you, and you!" She then jabbed her cane toward the back of the auditorium. "The managers' office! Everyone else, kindly remember that we are working on a _schedule_. I will not allow our rehearsals to be delayed another minute for this frivolous squabble. Stagehands, to your stations. Chorus girls, line up in the wings. Monsieur Reyer, kindly assemble the orchestra members." She glared at the bruised and bloody ballerinas condescendingly, her blue eyes flashing dangerously. "As for my girls, I will not tolerate such reckless and violent behavior. I am extremely disappointed in you." She sighed sharply and gestured to the dormitories. "You are exempt for rehearsals for the rest of the afternoon. You are to practice the entrechat quatre and ballotté until I come and instruct you otherwise. Meg will supervise. Wounds and complaints will not exempt you. I want those moves to be flawless by tomorrow morning. No excuses." She exchanged nods with her daughter, and watched as the petite blonde ushered the stunned and silent girls offstage. "As for the rest of you," she continued, "Craftsmen, seamstresses, grooms… you have no business lingering onstage. Back to your own departments immediately!"

The entire stage burst into action at her relentless tone, and the mass of onlookers silently slunk back to work, the spectacle concluded. Even the managers and prima donnas filed sullenly to their designated office, unwilling to challenge the ballet mistress' confident authority. Soon, only Giry, Reyer, the vicomte, the chorus girls, orchestra members and subdued stagehands remained, waiting patiently for instructions.

I sighed contentedly, slumping back against the wall with a lopsided grin. Well, it had been fun while it lasted. My gaze roamed the wings directly beneath me for any sign of Christine. I frowned when I could not place her— had she gone off to assist Meg without me noticing? My brow only furrowed deeper when I realized that I had not seen her all morning…

Apparently, I was not the only one to notice. Madame Giry rapped her cane on the ground once more, and the chorus girls stiffened.

"Where is Mademoiselle Daaé?" she demanded, her steely gaze scanning the wings for any sign of the absent girl. I wondered briefly if I had imagined the frightened quiver to her voice…

_I don't have her_, I thought bitterly, willing her to hear my thoughts. _Who don't you ask her precious vicomte?_

Evidently, the vicomte was much better at telepathy than Giry. He stepped forward, bowing his head slightly. "She felt a bit ill this morning, Madame," he offered. "I suggested that she stay in bed…"

The tension between Madame Giry's shoulders slackened almost imperceptibly, but her hard gaze only intensified. "Kindly refrain from directing my students in the future, Monsieur le Vicomte. As you will recall, that is my job." Without another word, she turned sharply to the chorus girls, and began to tap her cane rhythmically on the ground, calling out instructions and corrections as they began to dance immediately on cue and in sync.

Raoul and I turned to leave at the same time, and I growled softly as I noticed the direction in which he was headed. With a twist of my cape, I ducked through the nearest trap door, running as quickly as I dared through the dark passages. I ended, panting, in the narrow wooden tunnel just above Christine's bed.

Memories surged up from the depths of my mind at the familiar scene… many an evening had I sung my brilliant little student to sleep from that very spot, waiting and listening all night for any sign of distress. Often, in those first few years after her arrival in the ballet dormitories, my poor little Christine would jolt awake from a nightmare in a cold sweat, calling out in choked sobs for her deceased father. Each time, without fail, her Angel of Music would be there to comfort her, to sing a gentle lullaby and soothe her back to sleep. Sometimes, even before she awoke from the dreaded dreams, I would hear her writhing and whimpering in bed, and begin singing to her. Within moments, she would cease to thrash about, and slip into calmer dreams with the Angel of Music singing songs in her head.

She was asleep now, I supposed, as I couldn't hear her moving about in the room. I could see nothing from my dark hiding spot, and sang out experimentally,

_Christine, Christine…_

Below me, the gentle brush of sheets and squeak of springs alerted me to the fact that she could, at least, hear me. Whether she moved in her sleep or if she was actually awake, it took me a moment more to discern.

_Christine…_

I poured as much emotion into the name as my vocal chords would allow, and smiled softly as her whispered answer reached my ears. "_Mon ange?_" With my eyes closed, I could picture her chestnut lashes fluttering gently open as the words slipped from her rose petal lips. My own lips parted of their own accord as a song rose in my chest, but before the first note could leave them a quiet knock came at the door.

Now she was undeniably awake. I heard her sigh softly, and my heart gave a slight jolt of hope—was that disappointment I heard in her tone, knowing that it was Raoul, and not her Angel, waiting on the other side of the door? I waited, hardly breathing, as her bare feet landed on the cold wood floor with a dull thump, and listened as her padding footsteps approached the door.

"Raoul?" she asked quietly, her voice thick with sleep.

"It's only me, Little Lotte," the sickeningly sweet reply came. I clenched my teeth at the nickname, digging my fingernails into the flesh of my palms. The door handle clicked, and I heard the heel of Raoul's boots as he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. I could sense—rather than hear—them embrace, every hair on the back of my neck standing on end. Christine let out her breath in a sweet sigh… I squeezed my eyes firmly shut, imagining the moist air on my shoulder instead of the boy's.

_Patience,_ I chided myself. _She will soon be yours…_

"I heard shouting," Christine said softly, her voice muffled by the boy's shirt.

"Carlotta," Raoul sighed. "She and Sorelli had a falling out. I'm still not quite sure what happened."

_You wouldn't_, my mind retorted. _You don't have half enough brains to stuff that pretty head of yours…_

Christine only murmured her acknowledgement. I cringed at the sound of his foul lips on her perfect skin, the familiar boiling beginning in the core of my gut.

"_Mon Dieu_, love, you're burning up!" he exclaimed a moment later, followed by two sets of footsteps approaching the bed beneath me. I heard the mattress sag and sheets rustle as he tucked Christine in. There was a long pause, in which all of us remained silent. I held my breath, praying to the God I didn't believe in that he wouldn't begin to serenade her again…

Unfortunately, what he did do was much worse.

"Christine," he whispered before kissing her again. I shuddered, trying as hard as I could not to picture his lips covering hers.

"Mmm?" she murmured.

"I've been thinking a great deal lately…"

_A great accomplishment for you_, the voice in my head growled.

"About what?" Christine asked dreamily. My heart clenched in pain; I could hear the smile in her voice.

"You," Raoul breathed. I nearly gagged. "Me… us." He sighed softly, kissing her again. "What we said on the rooftop that night."

My heart stopped cold in my chest.

The sheets rustled as Christine propped herself up. "I've been thinking about that night, too," she admitted. I stopped breathing.

"And?"

"I haven't changed my mind, Raoul. I meant what I said."

The vicomte let his breath out in a sigh of relief, while the lack of oxygen began to burn my lungs. "So did I." There was a small clicking sound, and Christine gasped. "Let's make it official."

Christine's breath began to grow uneven and choked, as if she were crying. Tears formed in my own eyes as I squeezed them tightly shut, begging and praying with my entire soul that it was just my imagination, just a nightmare…

"Christine, angel," he whispered as her sobs grew heavier. "I have loved you since the first time I saw you…my Little Lotte by the sea. You were my first and only friend as a child, and I never thought… never dreamed that I would be so lucky…" His own voice broke, and for a moment the only sound in the room was their unsteady breathing. Their lips met, and I felt my senses start to fade, but didn't dare to breathe, didn't dare admit that I was actually witnessing…

"Dear God, I love you more than life itself," Raoul continued finally. "Christine… my beautiful Christine, make me the happiest man alive… let me love you until the day I die. Christine…will you marry me?"

Darkness tugged at the corners of my mind, and I willingly gave in to its comforting embrace, slipping from one nightmare into another with a strangled choke for air.

_A/N: Dun, dun, DUN! I know, sap fest, but come on, it's RAOUL. Haha. Review please, but remember that I do think Raoulie's adorable and that the whole leaving Erik ordeal was entirely Christine's fault because she's a trampslut whorebitch. K?_

_Haizea: Ooh, I'm glad you're enjoying "Phantom!" Glad I could be of help. Thanks so much… it's so nice to have you back as a reviewer; you make me blush. Haha. Run away! Naughty!Erik on the loose! –giggles-_

_Hriviel: -tackle hugs- THANK YOU! I love getting specific pointers as to what the readers like... it's very useful in writing future chapters. As for the last comment, you'll just have to wait and see, now, won't you? I won't stray from the storyline, I promise! They'll still all be in a great mood for the Masquerade._

_Alli Lynn: LOL… AAH! Not Carlotta! She gives my beloved Phantom migraines! –cracks up- Happy you liked it:)_

_Daydreamingturtle: Really? A lot of people have said they've never seen a story done from this perspective, and it surprises me… I mean, it's the Phantom of the Opera, and miraculously I'm the only one who's thought to write a phanphic about the Phantom of the Opera from the point of view of the Phantom of the Opera? LOL. Apparently! –giggles- Thanks so much! And ooh, you reviewed my puny little one-shot too! –huggles- Aww, I've made a friend! THANK YOU! –beams- _

_RainsPhantom: Yes, we all love mischievous Erik, and yet so many writers have him so heartsick and brooding over Christine or falling in love with an OC that they forget this glorious side of him! It's a sin, I tell you! Lol. Yes, yes, I know you want hot and heavy EC fluff… hey, Point of No Return isn't TOO many chapters away! ;)_

_Just a phan: Ay, que interesante! Sí, claro, si es más facil hablar español, por supuesto, habla español! Awwww, eres muy amable! Muchas gracias! Mi cuento no es nada espectacular, pero estoy alegre que lo te gusta. Y otra vez, no me importa si hablas español o ingles— hablo y me gusta a los dos! (y todos otros de ustedes también!)_

_Jinxd n Cursed: Thanks:) YAY for new reviewers! –does new reviewer dance-_

_Joanieponytail: -glomps- Joanie, it's official. I LOVE you! I was laughing for a good ten minutes at that Surgeon General's Warning… Too. Funny! Yes, I was rooting for Erik while writing the corset ordeal… someday, darling! Hey, that IS a good excuse… er, my pants are a little snug today. –glares- Erriikk! LOL. Yes, I did try to plan ahead with the makeup, because I know he'll need it for the Bal Masque and then yet again in DJT. Just doing my duty as authoress! I'm sorry about the loss of the chocolates; I'm sure it was nothing personal. I do wish I had the time to get Carlotta's reaction to the tainted sweets; that'll teach her to be so picky! –happy sigh- But seriously, you're so great… thank you, thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart! I adore you!_

_Rosalyne: Another new reviewer! –waves ecstatically- Hiya! Thanks for reading, and thanks even more for reviewing! We're all in love with PotO; it's such a great story! Glad you're enjoying my version! _

_Opal Gimstone: LOL, to be completely honest, I can't picture him saying that either, unless he was mocking someone. The tone of voice in which I imagined him saying it was such an Erik-esque half-growl with that naughty, sexy little smirk… it just worked. I just wish you guys could see what's in my head. I try! Ooh, yes, Piangi most DEFINITELY needs makeup application lessons from Mr. Depp (whom I love), but I don't know if it would help… he's still a slimy tub of lard with no singing voice. Lol. No apologies necessary; I'm just lucky to have such loyal reviewers! –hugs-_

_The Singing Fox Demon: YAY! SO glad I didn't kill that for you. –wipes brow- I know, why IS it that he's always moping over that trampslut whorebitch (excuse my… French)? Unfortunately, the fun couldn't last… he IS Erik after all, therefore he must mope! Lol_

_Kim Sparrow: UPDATING! Where's my sexy Phantom pictures? LOL. NEW REVIEWERS GALORE! How did I get so lucky? –beams- Aww, no you don't wish you could write like me… -coughs- I suck! –coughs- But thank you:)_

_Hicdracones: Yes, we all need some humor amidst the angst every once in awhile, or Erik's story becomes unbearably depressing. Awww, I made you grin? I feel special! –grins back- I can't wait for the Bal Masque… it should be very exciting, indeed! YAY for the sexy Red Death costume (complete with black makeup, of course)!_

_LePetiteChristine: I was thinking of you as I wrote on and on in that last chapter—oh god, Hil's gonna kill me if I write another shortie. Accck, I hate writer's block… Kessie's been good lately –knocks on wood- Feed your muse pudding! It works wonders, I swear!_

_Shadow Fox Forever: Shankya. Where have you been? Haven't seen you on AIM in FOREVER! Happy birthday! –sings sweet sixteen song- What's your birthday wish? (other than being seduced by Erik, silly!)_

_Venus725: Oh good, I'm glad it was worth the wait! (-coughs- it was not! –coughs-) I love devilish Erik too… and "superbulous" is going into my list of awesome words! ;)_

_JennAnn: Yeah, I still have quite a ways to go with this story… I'm at least going to have 40 chapters, if not more. Unfortunately, no, it's not going to be different from the movie—I will eventually write an E/C though, I promise! Thanks… -blushes- Chapter 23 is probably my favorite too. –grins- _

_AliciaRoseM: Thanks! Was this quick enough? Lol._

_Squirrel Maiden of Green: Well thank you so much for reviewing! I know there are plenty of people out there who read my story regularly and never get around to reviewing, so –HUGE HUGS- and thank you again! I'm so very glad you like it! –gives you a cookie- LOL, yeah, yay for Spanish speakers! It comes in handy! ;)_

_LoveroftheArts: Erik? In character? In MY story? –giggles- You must be joking! Haha. And yes, all reviews make my day, but yours in particular put a big grin on my face. Thanks!_

_Sakume: Ooh, I applaud your Spanish speaking skills, m'dear! I'm sure you'll ace that test tomorrow. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! –glomps- Lots of birthdays! Make a wish, and I'll see if I can grant it! –hands you a buffet table of sweets-_

_I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH! I get more reviews and newcomers with each chapter! –gives you all a big hug- You'll never know how much I appreciate it! _


	29. Preparations

_A/N: Please don't hate me! –sobs- I could never forget Phantom! This chapter took me For.ev.er. to write… four rewrites, not including the multiple paragraphs I deleted and rephrased. The first version was a laundry list, the second a random collection of introspections, the third just plain stupid. Don't ask about the fourth. This one, at least, is slightly tolerable. Please keep in mind that this is a filler chapter; I had to get Erik ready for the Masquerade, and he had quite a bit of preparation to do. To make up for it, though, I did add something that I think you ladies will enjoy… -smirks- So read on! And please don't forget to drop me a review!_

_Ooh, and something rather hysterical which my beloved twin dug up yesterday:_

_**Main Entry:** lotte_

_**Pronunciation:** 'lät, 'lot_

_**Function:** noun_

_**Etymology:** French, from Middle French_

_**Date:** 1977_

_: MONKFISH_

_**Main Entry**: monk·fish_

_**Pronunciation:** 'm&ngk-"fish_

_**Function:** noun_

_**Date:** 1666_

_: either of two goosefishes (Lophius americanus of America and L. piscatorius of Europe) used for food_

"_Little Fishbrain let her mind water… Little Fishbrain thought, am I fonder of grubs or of tackle or flies?"_

_LOLOLOL. Alright, I'm done. Just thought you Christine-loathers out there would enjoy that. -giggles-_

I never did hear Christine's reply. By the time I drifted back to consciousness, the bedroom was still and silent beneath me. For a moment I simply lay there, my cheek resting heavily against the damp, rotted wood. The minutes ticked by unmarked except by the increasing serration of my breath as the severity of the past few moments began to sink in. Ever since Christine was a young child, I had prided myself in my ability to read her thoughts and emotions as clearly as if they were written across her forehead. The muscles in my weary heart convulsed as I realized that I had no need to hear her response; the look in her beautiful brown eyes that night on the rooftop spoke to me far more than words ever could.

I should have given up in that moment, curled in a ball above her bedroom, alone and defeated. The vicomte had won; he would have Christine for the rest of his life—whisk her off to a large estate in the country where she could live out the remainder of her days in the luxury and splendor known only to the selected few. And what a change it would be for her! To go from a lonely orphan, a mere chorus girl, to the Vicomtess de Chagny… any other girl would jump at the chance and never turn an eye to look back at the life she left behind.

But a new chain of thought took form in my cluttered mind, and fresh rage suddenly drowned out misery and dejection. Year after year, I watched the elegant ladies of wealth and prestige pour into the Opera Populaire, gliding around on their husbands' arms like elaborate accessories. Oh, they were undeniably stunning, garbed in gold taffeta and fine silk, drenched in glittering diamonds and rubies and sapphires, twirling around the ballroom with dazzling white smiles plastered across their beautiful faces. But there was something about these women of the Parisian aristocracy which had always struck me as extremely out of place: their eyes. They were empty, unseeing, cold. Dead. When I looked upon Christine, there was a sparkle, a glowing depth to her brown orbs which glittered more brightly than all the gold in the Persian shah's private stash. I fell in love with her every time I stared into them. But if indeed the windows were the eyes to the soul, then my perception of the elite women was an undeniably morbid one; they were as vacant inside—of emotion, passion, _life_— as the mannequin I had so carefully constructed of my beloved. My heart physically stung at the idea of Christine turning into one of them… just another trophy for the vicomte to put on display for his peers' approval.

She was a child. Confused and afraid, she had turned to her childhood friend for comfort, and found a pair of open arms. I could not blame her for the decision she had undoubtedly made, but no sooner could I allow her to sell her soul for a spot in the society of the elite, as just another beautiful mannequin. Comfort be damned, she could not do this; I would not let her do this. With every last breath in my body, I would fight for her.

She might not be pampered with maids and fine dresses and sparkling jewels if she remained with me; I could not promise her those luxuries. But in exchange for her sacrifice, in exchange for loving a monster, she could keep her soul intact, constantly feeding it with the fire and passion we created with our music. I alone could give her song, inspiration, and my undying love… I alone could give my angel her wings.

Slowly, very slowly, I gathered my weary muscles and forced my weight upon them, crawling on my hands and knees to the trap door at the end of the tunnel. I do not know how long I wandered the dark passages, lost in thought, oblivious to my surroundings.

When I finally snapped from the trance, a chorus of excruciatingly off-key voices drifted up through the stone walls around me, causing me to flinch.

_Masquerade! Paper faces on parade— masquerade!_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you._

_Masquerade! Every face a different shade— masquerade!_

_Look around, there's another mask behind you._

"They're. Ruining. My. Song," I snarled, passing a hand over my eyes. Evidently, Giry was equally displeased with the performance; she interrupted the chorus with a sharp rap of her cane and a groan so loud it reached my ears three stories above her. Indeed, the success of this particular song was as important to her as it was to me…

Over fifteen years ago, before even Monsieur Lefevre was manager, I had composed the music for the winter gala, while young Céline had eagerly provided choreography. Under the cover of night, we had perfected our work over the course of a month, and I had presented it to the managers with firm instructions to adhere to Giry's commands. Reluctantly, they had agreed (the "disaster beyond your imagination" line was much more effective with those two), and unsurprisingly the masquerade was a smashing success. The Opera Populaire acquired more patrons after that single event than at any other time in its history. The managers were so thrilled that they had immediately promoted Giry and begun the habit of leaving me a considerable sum of cash at the end of the month in exchange for composing music for them. For each successful opera or gala they raised my pension by two thousand francs, with an additional monthly bonus for each new patron. The tradition carried on into Levefre's tenure, though I composed less and less for the public as my focus turned to my new pupil. Occasionally Giry and I would collaborate for a new production, but those instances grew increasingly rare after she was promoted to ballet mistress and my time became increasingly occupied with instructing Christine. I had always felt a bit guilty about receiving such a large salary while Giry struggled to support her young daughter, but she would hear nothing of taking a portion of my "hard-earned money." As a compromise, I would leave little presents for her in Box Five after every performance. And so our little routine had continued until the day that Levefre (the bloody chicken) left the fate of my opera house in the hands of those brainless twits Andre and Firmin.

I shook my head slightly to clear it of the memories, suddenly irked at Giry for her audacity. Whose side was she on, anyway? Had she asked permission to use _my_ song, _my_ lyrics in the upcoming gala? No! Granted, I never would have objected in the past, but since the new managers simply refused to comply with my orders and present me with my due salary, I had become rather reluctant to assist them in their little social gatherings. Perhaps I would just have to crash this one to make my point unquestionably clear.

A sly grin twisted my lips as the puzzle pieces finally slid together. Come to think of it, the upcoming Bal Masque would be the perfect opportunity to kill two birds… nay, a dozen… with one stone. Much could be accomplished in a single evening if I played my cards wisely. My mind reeled at the possibilities. With a whirl of my cloak, I took off at a sprint down the hall.

I had exactly three days until the Bal Masque. So much to do, so little time…

I began to make a mental checklist as I spiraled downward towards my lair, murmuring quietly to myself and ticking off items on my fingers. Once I reached home, I sat immediately at my desk and began to write the agenda down. My quill scratched hastily across the thin paper until finally I sat back to read through it, chewing absently on the end of the feather.

_1. Finish "Don Juan Triumphant!" _

_2. Find leather binding_

_3. Bathe_

_4. Create/purchase Red Death costume (consult Poe) including mask and sword_

_5. Test trap door on main stairway to the torture chamber_

_6. Obtain gunpowder_

_7. Think of witty lines (absolutely must rhyme)_

_8. Eat something?_

I bit the inside of my cheek, nodding to myself. In one swift movement I dropped the quill in its bottle, snatched up the paper and rose from my chair. Tucking the list into my cloak pocket, I moved immediately to my organ, sliding my fingers caressingly over the familiar keys. With a deep breath, I closed my eyes, calling upon the image of Christine. Sensual memories abounded within me; I could still taste her, smell her, feel her in my arms. Without even registering the movement, my fingers began to move across the keys… slowly at first, then with mounting fervor. Passion unfolded from my fingertips, swelling in the air around me with breathtaking force.

For hours I sat like that, my fingers dancing across the keys until they swelled and bruised painfully at the joints. With a guilty look at the grandfather clock I reluctantly brought the song to a close, wincing as my hand muscles buzzed numbly. They would undoubtedly be killing me tomorrow… but I didn't need to be focusing on tomorrow when there was still so much to be accomplished today. Sighing deeply, I picked up a piece of sheet music and my quill and went to work.

By the time I dropped the last page of sheet music on the top of the pile, still wet with ink, the entire day had slipped by. I raised my heavy eyes to the clock and scowled, stretching my spine and groaning as the bones cracked in protest. Two in the morning. For a moment I debated going to bed, but finally decided that it would be a terrible waste of time. Everyone would be asleep at this hour, either gone home or to the dormitories; it was the perfect opportunity to sneak about undetected. With a shuddering yawn, I climbed to my feet and made for the nearest set of stairs.

While there were irrefutable downsides to living within the Populaire, good always accompanied the bad. It was in times like these that I truly came to appreciate the advantages of being the Opera Ghost. Within my opera house were several prop departments, ranging from embroidery to plaster to masonry to paint to ceramics. Several of Paris' most accomplished artisans were employed here, and on some days I contented myself with merely watching them at work. The set construction was of particular interest to me; I had spent two years of my youth as an apprentice to a master mason in Rome, a sponge to his vast knowledge of architecture and design. Later, as I grew up within the opera's protective walls, watching and listening, I came to appreciate the intricacy of every craft, and developed an insatiable hunger for knowledge. I wanted to do it all! So in the privacy of my lair, I taught myself to paint, sculpt, cast, and even sew, ever intent on bettering my skills. Once Christine had entered my life, I found myself more and more absorbed in her instruction and hence had little occasion to practice, but my mind did not work like most men; I could be out of practice with a certain skill for years at a time, then come back to it one day and pick it up as if I had never stopped. So it was that I trekked quietly to the fourth floor, where I deftly picked the lock to the plaster department.

A thick white dust hung in the air, and I choked a little as it coated the inside of my lungs. Clasping a handkerchief over my nose and mouth, I found the nearest gas lamp and quickly ignited it. Several masks in different stages of assembly covered the workbench; the craftsmen had indeed been working hard in preparation for the masquerade. I scrutinized their work for a moment, but found nothing to suit my purpose. Sighing softly, I grabbed an open sack of the white plaster mix, still in powder form, along with a few chisels and other tools to mold it. The bag was remarkably heavy, especially with sore hands, but I grunted my way down the stairs, my fingers screaming, unwilling to admit weakness. A weak man earned nothing—deserved nothing. A little organ playing certainly couldn't faze the great Phantom of the Opera!

Back in my lair once again, I dropped the sack with a heavy thud, collapsing onto my organ bench with a grunt. I merely sat there for a moment, catching my breath, before getting up to retrieve a wooden bucket. With a deep sigh that ended in a yawn, I drew water from the filtered pool and set it beside the plaster mix. Then, slowly and carefully, I sifted the dust through my fingers and into the bucket, churning the slimy substance with my hands. Soon it came to just the right thickness and texture, and I quickly scooped the wet plaster onto my face, smoothing it to fit every crevice and bump from forehead to upper lip. For a while there was nothing to do but wait for the goop to dry against my skin, so I leaned back in exhaustion, my eyes slipping shut. I must have dozed off for a few minutes, for when I woke the mask was hard and uncomfortable against my skin. I fingered the edges around my ear cautiously, and getting a good grip, pulled it slowly away from my face. A few stubborn little pieces of white plaster clung to the curve of my lip and nose, but aside from the few, almost unperceivable blemishes, the mold was flawless. I placed it on my workbench, careful to avoid black ink stains, and proceeded to scratch at the irritating clumps of residue. In the process, my wig toppled to the floor, and I groaned, lacking the energy to retrieve it. Instead, I continued the pattern, shedding of my cloak and boots, followed closely by my tunic, mask, and pants.

"Might as well get number three out of the way," I mumbled to myself, approaching the filtered pool. I stared blankly at my wash basin, then glanced skeptically back at the water. At the moment, I had not the time nor the patience to draw and heat a bath. I threw my hands up in the air with a sharp sigh. "Oh, what the bloody hell." Gritting my teeth against the sudden frigidity of the pool, I waded slowly up to mid-thigh. I squeezed my eyes shut in preparation, and suddenly plunged completely into the water before scurrying to the surface with a ragged gasp. The water was like ice! I shivered uncontrollably, my teeth chattering, as I rubbed my arms in a futile attempt to get warm. Goose bumps popped up along my chest and limbs as every last one of my nerves snapped to attention. My spine went completely rigid, but as the initial shock faded slightly I began to move my limbs hesitantly through the icy water. After a moment I sucked in a deep breath and suddenly plunged my head underwater, scrubbing vehemently at the mousy brown hair which covered two thirds of my head. The cool bath felt surprisingly good as it cleansed away the perspiration and natural oils built up for God knows how long. Unlike most people within Paris, I didn't often bother with time-consuming tasks such as eating, sleeping or bathing unless the circumstances absolutely demanded that I do so. Come to think of it, I didn't even own a bar of soap, save the one Christine had produced to do my laundry. At the moment I didn't feel like searching for it, so I scrubbed my flesh and hair particularly hard in a vain effort to compensate.

Once my fingertips had been rubbed raw and my scalp dripped with tiny rivulets of scarlet blood, I figured I had done the job well enough. I dunked my head underwater one last time and rubbed down the rest of my body briefly before climbing hastily out of the pool.

After nearly twenty minutes of searching in increasing frustration for a towel, it occurred to me that I no longer had one; I had used the only one I owned to rub down César after a particularly hard run in the countryside, and it had since been transformed into a grooming rag. Shivering, dripping all over my floor, and cursing viciously at my idiotic forgetfulness, I stomped into my bedroom, my cheeks flushing a deep shade of crimson. Thank heavens Christine had not been here to witness this little ordeal. I threw the mannequin a furious glance as I stormed past it, then shook my head with a growl of utter humiliation and self-loathing. Dear Lord, now I was embarrassed by a _dummy!_

I shoved an end table onto its side as I entered my bedroom, taking satisfaction in the destructive action. Still grumbling to myself, I snatched a black silk robe from my wardrobe and threw it over my trembling shoulders. The thin fabric did little to warm my flesh, but I felt a great deal more secure with some form of clothing covering me. The women in my life seemed to be taking greater liberty upon themselves to impose on my privacy; Christine had started the trend, followed by each of the Girys. I was not prepared to face the mortification of being caught buck naked, searching fruitlessly for a nonexistent towel; if one of them chose this moment to surprise me with a visit, I would be prepared.

Wrapping the silken robe tighter around my waist, I stepped warily back into the main room. I strode directly past the mannequin with my head held high, far too embarrassed to look upon the lovingly constructed replica of Christine. The likeness between the two was rather uncanny.

I gathered my trousers from the floor and hastily pulled them on, but tossed the shirt onto the untouched laundry pile which my little nursemaid had assembled weeks ago. I did not have the heart to clutter the room she had so thoughtfully cleaned; I had even kept the stacks of sheet music organized as she had left them— a true feat for a man who had lived in haphazard disorder for the past thirty six years.

I stared absently around the room, remembering. Waves of exhaustion rolled over me, and the gentle lapping of water against the stone shore nearly lulled me into sleep. My head bobbed dangerously, but a moment later I jerked awake with a shake of my head, rubbing my palms over my sunken eyes. I slunk over to the lake and cupped my hands, letting the cool water run into my palms. When they were full, I suddenly slapped the water up to my face, letting it trickle down my neck and chest. The water did very little to stimulate my numb brain, but it did provide enough adrenaline to propel me to my feet. With what little energy I had left, I grabbed my discarded mask, slipped it on, and headed up the stairs to the main level once again.

The promise of mischief brought a sleepy smile to my face as I made my way toward the guest stables on the main floor. The sky was a misty gray as dawn approached, casting eerie shadows across the cobblestones. I crept stealthily along the ridge of the buildings, glancing around warily and jumping at the smallest of sounds. The grooms would rise within the hour to begin their morning chores, and I had maintained anonymity for so many weeks now that it seemed a shame to appear just two days before the masquerade. Being caught would ruin everything.

The guest tack room was on the west side of the barn, immediately beside the stall in which Monsieur le Vicomte was boarding his pride stallion. I studied the creature for a moment, tilting my head slightly to the side. It was indeed a magnificent beast, powerful and muscular, with a gleaming white coat. When I reached my hand out to stroke its neck, however, it yanked away as if it had been stung. I crinkled my nose and turned away in disgust. Like master like horse, I supposed. Increasingly convinced of the justice in my actions, I slipped hastily inside the wooden tack room, shutting the door securely behind me. The walls were lined with saddles and bridles mounted upon wooden blocks, each made of fine leather. I stalked around the edge of the room slowly, my hands clasped at the small of my back, studying the saddles until I found the one I was looking for. A brand new, polished saddle the color of rich coffee was perched on the highest rack, and with the dim light peeking in through the small window, I could just make out the name engraved on its gold plague:

_DeCHAGNY_

Grinning maliciously, I plucked the saddle from its support, running my fingers along the smooth leather.

"Perfect," I purred, tucking my trophy under one arm. The vicomte's saddle would make a fine cover for my opera, indeed.

I had to smother a chuckle as I slipped quietly out of the room and through a side entrance into the opera. Luckily, it was early enough that no one was yet up and about, but late enough that the exterior doors had been unlocked so that those with morning shifts could move from one section of the opera to another with ease. Still, I approached the main lobby with immense caution, my eyes jumping warily from one suspicious shadow to the next. Fortunately I met no obstacles, and reached the main stairwell without so much as seeing a rat. With great reluctance I stepped into the middle of the room, where anyone could have seen me in the growing daylight. Fate, however, seemed to have granted me clemency, for I reached the trapdoor in the very center of the broad room and stood there for a good long minute without being seen. The lever which released the trap door was hidden in the seal of the Opera Populaire, but was very difficult to spot unless one knew how to work it. Sucking in a deep breath in preparation, I nudged the toe of my boot into a specific spot in the seam of the circle, and the top layer of the seal disappeared into the floorboards. With an insistent stomp of my heel, the four-way jigsaw piece of a trap door gave way beneath me, and I dropped instantly down into my infamous torture chamber. I landed with a thud which I swore could wake the dead, and waited breathlessly as the trap door slid shut above me. I did not breathe for a few moments as I listened for someone to stir above me, but the anticipated noise never came. Breathing a sigh of relief, I collected the saddle (which I had dropped during the two-story fall) and glanced briefly at the walls surrounding me.

I was quite a sight. My thin brown hair stood completely on end, disheveled from the steep drop. The black silk robe had fallen open to reveal my bare chest, which was still dotted with faded bruises from Perros. My mask, at least, had managed to remain in place, but I was unaccustomed to seeing it without the black wig which usually accompanied it. Half of my deformed, bubbled flesh stood out above the white porcelain, and I sneered in disgust before turning sharply away.

The stairway to my left would take me home, but it was the passage to the right which I ducked into silently, my eyes ablaze. I hardly ever visited this level of the opera—I didn't often have need to visit the fourth cellar. General Napoleon had insisted that my opera house be used as a secret artillery base for his little skirmish with Prussia, and had "conveniently" stocked two dozen cannons and over three hundred rifles in the fourth cellar, only to be captured and abdicated. The French government, God damn the bloody fools, had, of course, forgotten their little stock pile after the loss of the general, and so the weapons had been left to rot just above my ceiling. I doubted Monsieur Lefevre had given this little tidbit of information to Andre or Firmin, and was not about to bother, especially when it meant sending French troops marching up to my doorstep. I had merely followed the same policy with the artillery that I had used with every other object left behind in my opera: if its owner did not deem it important enough to remember, then it belonged to me.

I stepped into the cavernous room with a shudder; the air was cold and damp, and sent a shiver running up my spine. I pulled my robe tighter around my shoulders and shifted the saddle on my hip before taking a hesitant step toward the nearest cannon. In the dark the guns were difficult to recognize except as black humps, and I nearly tripped over the top of one of them, stubbing my toe in the process. I bit down on my tongue to stifle a yelp, hissing through my teeth. With a soft moan of pain I crammed the saddle on top of the cannon and leaned against it, bending down to massage my smarting toe. Eventually the pain subsided enough for me to stand with little more than a wince; I could only hope the bone was not broken. Cursing the French army under my breath, I hobbled to the front of the gun and knelt at its muzzle. Very slowly, I stuck my hand into the round opening and inched my fingers deeper inside. When the pads of my fingertips encountered the smooth, round shot, I stopped, pressing my weight down on the muzzle and prying at the ball with my fingers. Soon it popped loose and began to roll toward the front of the gun, and I jerked my hand away, dreading the prospect of smashing my already-bruised fingers. The heavy shot dropped out of the gun with a reverberating thud. I flinched at the unwanted noise, holding my breath for a few seconds. When no hint of noise responded, I kneed the ball to one side and delved my hand into the bore again, inching my fingers further down until they found a coarse material. I made a small grunt of triumph and chewed my lower lip as I stretched as far as my arm would reach into the opening, getting as good a grip on the edge as I could manage. My fingers pinched into the corner of the material, and very slowly, very carefully, I edged it toward the front of the cannon. When it was close to the rim of the muzzle I grabbed the flannel with both hands and crawled backwards, pulling the sack into my lap. I collapsed back on my rear end under the surprising weight of the little parcel, and sniffed at it experimentally. Nodding slightly to myself, I climbed swaggeringly to my feet and tucked the sack under one arm. It was gunpowder, alright. With my free arm I snatched the saddle from atop the troublesome cannon and began my slow, cumbersome journey down to the cellar below.

For once, I did not care that my footsteps were loud and heavy against the cold stone stairs. Exhaustion had taken its toll on my body, and I could no longer keep my watering eyes open. Fortunately, I knew these tunnels well, and could have just as easily traveled them blindfolded as with a blazing lantern. On the last few steps I stumbled wearily, dropping the sack of gunpowder and the vicomte's saddle with a dull thud. Sprawled out on the floor, I moaned groggily and shook my head in a fruitless attempt to rid it of the sleepy haze. I would not give in to primal needs until every last one of my wits failed me. Out of pure stubbornness, I managed to flip onto my stomach and half-walk, half-crawl my way into the main room. I spotted my cloak which lay in a crumpled heap by my desk, and staggered over to it. My agenda was still tucked securely in the pocket, and I pulled it out and catapulted up onto my desk chair with a source of strength still unknown to me. I unfolded the paper and grabbed my quill with trembling hands, clenching the muscles firmly in a vain attempt to still my quaking handwriting. Prying my eyes open painfully, I began to check off each of the tasks accomplished, and stared emptily at those still left undone. With a weary sigh, I reluctantly admitted defeat. The costume would have to wait until tomorrow; I could hardly hold my head up as it was.

I did not even bother to put my quill back in the ink pot before stumbling up the stairs toward my bedroom and relief. I stopped only for a moment to gaze upon the beautiful face of the mannequin. My bloodshot eyes softened at merely the thought of her…

_Christine… _I sung hoarsely, the gentle notes wavering in the still morning air.

Slowly, reverently, I brought two shaking hands up to the mannequin's head, and carefully removed the wedding veil. Two tremulous lips caressed the delicate rim as I cradled the precious object to my chest. My eyes slipped closed as I climbed the last two steps and stumbled into my coffin. It was there, curled in a ball, that a single glistening tear caught in the wedding veil hugged tightly to my cheek. I remember nothing more before succumbing to merciful sleep.

_A/N: -sigh- I'm so sorry about this chapter… it was long, boring, and tedious, but necessary. I do hate these filler chappies, but what is an authoress to do? Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. On the upside, the masquerade is next, and my little tangent is over! Woo hoo! -giggles- _

_WOW! So. Many. Reviews. –baffled- This is awesome… but I must point out that since I do respond to every single review, I can't make them too long! Know that I still love y'all just as much, I just don't have the time to properly express it! _

_Haizea: -offers a razor- Have fun with that! Haha. I know, I know, I can't believe I dared to abandon Phantom even for a little while. But it won't happen again, I swear!_

_Venus725: LOL! Yeah, why is it that the trampslut whorebitch and co. always wins? Ah well, Erik'll show them up with his cute, pompous little debut in "Why So Silent?" -grins-_

_RainsPhantom: Oh, no need to make up excuses for her! Fever or not, who in the world would choose Raoul over Erik? I mean, COME ON:P lol _

_Mrs. Butler: It's going to follow the ALW movie/musical's ending… but there will be an epilogue, and that's all I'm going to say._

_Hriviel: YAY for specific points! Yeah, Andre was an easy scapegoat… he's just so funny! Giry kicks butt, and I love writing her with a temper. Raoul IS sappy, but yeah, he generally is… AIAOY? I rest my case. LOL._

_Daydreamingturtle: Awww, you're so nice to review more than one chappie! New reviewers, take note and follow her example! I LOVE reviews! Thanks for taking the time to give me specific feedback; I really, really, REALLY appreciate it:D _

_KimSparrow: Aye, aye, Ma'am! -giggles- You had me laughing uncontrollably at the "SAVVY?" line. :) A genius for suspense? Moi? You flatter me! –blushes-_

_Jinxd n Cursed: Thank you. :) The updates will be coming much, MUCH faster once summer break starts. One week! -waits impatiently-_

_Noni Noelle: Yes, yes, you saved that chappie from utter doom by sappiness. Even RAOUL isn't that bad! -giggles- Thanks, ma cherie! _

_The Singing Fox Demon: Haha, your review had me in stitches. Glad you agree! It's all Christine's fault! Poor Erik indeed! Harumph! LOL. _

_Shadow Fox Forever: Oooh, or else, huh? –cowers- I'm sorryyyy! This chapter took me forever to write! Summer's only a week away, and then I'll write like a maniac, okay?_

_Lady G: Oh, you know Erik can't stay mad at you all that long. And admit it: you've grown to love him. :) LOL… you're one of the few who appreciated Raoul's "sappiness", but I must say I'm glad it didn't go unheeded. He IS a sweetie. _

_Joanieponytail: Oh, I know, isn't she a pain? –giggles- It's rather difficult writing Erik so in love with her, because I absolutely despise the brainless little twit… -sighs- I know… she knew he was right above her, listening, and she STILL acted that way, not once, but twice: on the rooftop, and now with the proposal. Will she ever learn? Thanks—I love writing bumbling characters like Andre and Firmin, but Madame Giry is my ultimate favorite._

_Sakume: Double yay! You passed the test and had an awesome birthday! -takes goodie bag- Mmm, sweets! Thanks, hon:D_

_Phan: Why, thank you! -beams and blushes while doing new reviewer dance-_

_Sandy: That's okay, babe—I'm just glad you find time in your packed schedule to read this little phic of mine, let alone review. I love you to death! Let's hope Kess and Cass stay put throughout the summer, or we'll be in trouble! _

_LePetiteChristine: Well you should be happy with this chapter… it's VERY long. Lol. Speaking of which, ahem, little missy, you're back from Alaska—get writing! ;) I have written Star Wars fics, to answer your question… quite a few, actually, but they're on a different site. _

_Cathedral of Chaos: Thank you! -does new reviewer dance- In chapter one, he's approximately 27 years old._

_Marianne Brandon: -alternates beaming and gaping- Ladies and Gentlemen, it's officially the apocalypse. The greatest phanphic authoress ever has decided to not only read, but faithfully REVIEW this story. I'm still in shock, Em! So glad you like it, even if it's undeserving of such high praise; you're such a sweetheart:) _

_Gerryroxmysox: Hey, awesome screen name! He rocks MY socks too! –drools- Aww, yeah, he is cute when he causes trouble. Tee hee. Okay, well, have a great summer, and don't forget to review -hint hint, nudge nudge- when you get back! ;)_

_Ever Rin: -does reviewer dance again- Whew, you guys are going to wear me out here! -laughs- Err… sorta? It follows the ALW movie/musical storyline, but there will be an epilogue which may or may not make you happy. I'm in the process of writing an E/C, though, so hang in there! _

_Arwen1604: I like chapter ten, too… it's one of the few that I'm rather proud of. LOL. -pants heavily, doing new reviewer dance again- No, don't die! -sends Erik over to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation- There, better? XD_

_Jessie: LOLOLOL… okay, I'm sure that review only made sense to ME. Thanks for reading and reviewing, love! You're now officially "in the clique." –grins- Now if you review MORE, perhaps I'll send you hot shirtless Gerry pics… haha. (This is my real life best friend for those of you who don't know her) _

_Erik's Dark Lullaby: Awwww, thank you! And WOO HOO! Someone agrees with me that Raoul isn't the culprit here! -does new reviewer dance AGAIN- (I LOVE this!) Oh, you're nicer than me… I respect Erik immensely, but I don't hold back when it comes to dissing Christine. Lol. _


	30. Burning Glances, Turning Heads

_A/N: Somehow I think you'll manage to forgive me for the lapse in time here. I could have gone into great detail about how Erik made his costume, carved his mask, etc. etc. etc., but I decided against it to avoid yet another filler. So we're jumping about a day ahead to the night of the Bal Masque here. I'll leave the rest up to your imaginations. _

_For those of you who have been missing our Chrissy dearest… ahem… she's baaack! –shakes head in despair-_

_Oh! One last thing before I leave you alone and let you read. For those of you who have so PATIENTLY (ahem- NOT! lol) been awaiting that E/C I promised you after chapter 23, it's now posted. –trumpets randomly strike up an announcing tune- Ladies and gentlemen, "Evergreen" is now up and running to sate your E/C needs. :D _

_Okay, done plugging. Read on, my lovelies! _

_Disclaimer: To quote my beta and favorite phanphic authoress: "People! Seriously!" _

Ten minutes in my Red Death costume, and already I was sweltering.

The red suit had been easy enough to obtain; there were six vaults in the first cellar alone, stuffed to the brim with a random array of costumes, wigs, furniture, sets, strings of lights, and almost any other prop imaginable. It was there that I had found the quintessential outfit: a one-piece velvet suit the color of fresh blood, finely embroidered with gold silk along the front and sleeves. The collar was a bit extravagant (the costume had originally been used to clothe a wealthy duke in _Don Pasquale_ a few years back), but a few deft snips along the hem had relieved me of the ridiculous Elizabethan ruffles. Still, the inner seams were rough and uncomfortable against my bare skin, so I had quickly donned a white tunic and a pair of tight leather pants to make the costume more bearable.

It had taken very little time at all to realize that I would probably pass out from the heat before the night was over. In the cool, dark passages I was grateful for the extra fabric; it was December, and the cellars were immensely frigid, especially after nightfall. But once I reached the small room above the chandelier in the main lobby, I quickly removed my black cravat and mask for fear that I would begin to perspire and smudge my carefully applied makeup (compliments of Carlotta). The managers had the furnaces blasting in the vents, and the warm air from the lobby drifted upwards to hover in the stifling room. I tilted my head back to expose my bare neck, fanning myself lazily with my discarded skeleton mask.

Guests poured into the front entrance by the dozen, their voices reverberating on the polished marble. The orchestra had already begun to play an old German waltz, but a quick peek through the hole in the ceiling confirmed that no one was dancing yet. I was not surprised; I knew the routine well. The men would sweep in with their wives on their arms and deposit their coats in the cloakroom before promptly ordering their drinks. After they had bumped shoulders with a few of their peers over their wives' curve-hugging, shimmering gold dresses, they would dismiss the women to find their own friends and gossip merrily over light champagne. It would be another hour or two before the dancing actually began; the orchestra simply provided background music for now.

I listened with half an ear as Andre and Firmin burst through the entrance below me, congratulating one another on the night's blatant success.

_Dear Andre, what a splendid party!_

_The prologue to a bright new year…_

_Quite a night, I'm impressed! _

Andre feigned modesty, grinning from ear to ear as if he, not Giry, had organized the entire event. _Well, one does one's best!_

_Here's to us! _They toasted together.

_The toast of all the city_

_What a pity that the Phantom can't be here!_

I sighed, resisting the urge to rub my face in frustration. It was laughably ironic, really, but the scorching heat was making me irritable; I was not in the mood for their jibes.

After another few moments of shifting my weight in a fruitless attempt to find a comfortable position, I got to my feet with an aggravated moan and snatched up my discarded costume pieces and leather-bound opera. I smirked at the cover as I walked, running my gloved fingers over the embossed title.

_Don Juan Triumphant!_

_O.G._

I had done very few things in my life as satisfying as burning my initials into the vicomte's expensive saddle with a white-hot brand.

_Now if it had only been HIS hide… _

I cut the thought off abruptly and choked on a laugh. I thrust open the door to the room, replacing my mask and cravat before stalking off resolutely toward the dormitories. Perhaps I could sneak in one quick glance of Christine in her beautiful new gown before crashing the Bal Masque…

But before I could even reach the edge of the auditorium, a brief snippet of conversation from the managers' office snagged my attention, and I pressed my ear to the stone wall to try and catch the rest.

Firmin and Andre had apparently gathered a small staff party, and had just broken out a bottle of champagne.

"Madame Giry, Monsieur Reyer, Signora Giudicelli, Signore Piangi," Firmin began while his partner poured champagne concurringly, "It has been an honor working with you these past few months!"

"Business has never been better…" Andre continued, pouring glasses for himself and his partner. "Have you seen the queue of carriages outside?" he crowed. "The guest list is over 500 names long!"

"And more are still flooding in," Firmin added.

"And zat lying bitch, Zorelli, iz gone for good!" Carlotta chimed in happily.

"Along with that damned O.G.!" Firmin bellowed, followed by a roar of laughter.

"Ah yes, I 'ad forgotten our friend ze Phantom!" Piangi chuckled.

"To O.G., then!" Firmin toasted, followed by a murmur of amused consent from his colleagues. "I hope he's off enjoying himself, haunting someplace else!"

"To O.G.!" the others echoed, followed by more laughter and the clinking of glasses.

I rolled my eyes, a smirk painted across my face. Half of me wanted to drop a match on Andre's poof of hair or flicker the lights and drop another salary reminder on their desk at that very moment, but I refrained merely for the sake of doubling the surprise later in the evening.

"Oh, the Opera Ghost will have a splendid time haunting tonight," I whispered as I turned away. "But he's not going anywhere." And with a whirl of my cloak I crept off to continue my search for Christine.

She was not in her dressing room, as I had expected, and I turned away from the mirror a few minutes later with a dejected sigh. Knowing Christine, she was probably in the main lobby on the arm of her precious vicomte. I sneered at the thought, storming off down the nearest hall to investigate.

The orchestra had struck up a very familiar tune by the time I once again reached the stuffy room above the chandelier. An assembly of black, white, and gold-clad chorus members had taken their positions in the center of the room while the guests gathered in the balconies above or along the sidelines to watch the opening dance. I lay on my stomach above them, absently drumming out the rhythm of the music on the floorboards as they burst into song and dance on cue.

_Masquerade! Paper faces on parade— Masquerade!_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you._

_Masquerade! Every face a different shade— Masquerade!_

_Look around, there's another mask behind you._

_Flash of mauve, splash of puce_

_Fool and king, ghoul and goose_

_Green and black, queen and priest_

_Trace of rouge, face of beast_

_Faces!_

_Take your turn, take a ride_

_On the merry-go-round_

_In an inhuman race_

I had to admit, the chorus had improved considerably in the two days since I had overheard their appalling rehearsal. My gaze roamed the room curiously for any sign of Giry, but she was nowhere to be seen. Probably still in the office, then, though it was unusual for her to keep such poor company.

_  
Eye of gold, thigh of blue_

_True is false, who is who?_

_Curl of lip, swirl of gown_

_Ace of hearts, face of clown_

_Faces!_

_Drink it in, drink it up_

'_Til you've drowned in the light, _

_In the sound,_

_But who can name the face?_

Despite myself, I found that I was lipping along absently, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. Much as I hated to admit it, I loved to see my work being appreciated by those whom I loathed… those elite pigs who now stared with wide, sparkling eyes at the spectacle I had created for them.

_Masquerade! Grinning yellows, spinning reds—Masquerade!_

_Take your fill; let the spectacle astound you_

_Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads—Masquerade!_

_Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you_

_Masquerade! Seething shadows, breathing lies—Masquerade!_

_You can fool any friend who ever knew you_

_Masquerade! Leering satyrs, peering eyes—Masquerade!_

_Run and hide but a face will still pursue you_

Suddenly the crowd from the managers' office appeared at the top of the stairs, accompanied by little Meg. Carlotta and Piangi strutted down the stairs in flashy gold costumes, followed by the managers (to my never-ending amusement, dressed as a ram and a cock, respectively) and the Girys. Everyone wore a large smile as they ascended the steps into the center of the dance, still congratulating themselves on organizing such a successful event (of course, due credit was never properly bestowed with that lot). They burst into an overlapping secession of song which grew increasingly insufferable by the moment.

_What a night! _

_What a crowd!_

_Makes you glad; _

_Makes you proud_

_All the crème de la crème_

_Watching us, watching them_

_And all our fears are in the past!_

_Three months_

_Of relief!_

_Of delight!_

_Of Elysian peace!_

_And we can breathe at last_

_No more notes_

_No more ghosts_

_Here's a health_

_Here's a toast_

_To a prosperous year_

_To our friends who are here_

_And may our splendor never fade!_

_What a joy_

_What a change_

_What a blessed relief_

_And what a Masquerade!_

About halfway through their self-centered little banter, I spotted Christine enter in the far corner of the room (on the vicomte's arm, as I had suspected), staring around at the gathered crowd with an expression of pleasant surprise. Within seconds I had climbed to my feet, swept out the door and raced across the ceiling to the opposite side of the room, where I climbed down a trap door to stand just a few meters away from her. We were separated only by a thin wall; I could hear every word that escaped her lips, and through a thin crack in the seam of the marble I could see her clearly as well.

_Think of it—_

_A secret engagement_

_Look, your future bride!_

_Just think of it…_

I inhaled sharply, clenching my teeth in rage. For a moment I closed my eyes, reminding myself that I had only a few more moments until I interrupted the masquerade and met with her face-to-face...

"But why is it secret? What have we to hide?" Raoul sulked. "You promised me—"

My spine went perfectly rigid as he attempted to kiss her, but a triumphant smirk worked its way across my face as she jerked away. "No Raoul, please don't, they'll see…" Christine's voice trembled ever so slightly in fear. This was very good news, indeed. She knew that I was watching… her Angel saw and heard everything, and she feared my displeasure. Terrible things happened when her Angel was angered…

"Well then let them see! It's an engagement, not a crime," Raoul insisted as if he were talking to a retarded child. He suspected, then… and still thought it childish for his fiancé to believe in angels. _Christine, what are you afraid of?_

_Let's not argue… _Christine offered diplomatically as she began to walk toward the main floor, where the guest couples had finally begun to dance.

_Let's not argue… _Raoul concurred before their voices rose in a duet.

_Please pretend; you will / I can only hope I'll_

_Understand in time!_

I clenched my hands into fists until the nails dug painfully into my palms, turning away from the scene in disgust. I could not stand to see the couple so aggravatingly _happy _while I suffered.

The orchestra had reached a long instrumental, and the chorus members broke into an extravagant dance, frolicking about the main room, winding in and out of one another in intricate patterns. Giry had truly outdone herself… I would grant her that, if begrudgingly. The snide comments about my absence for the past few months had left me feeling bitter resentment towards my "old friend," but I could not deny that when it came to arranging dazzling performances, she was unrivaled.

Although my heart ached to watch that boy twirl my beloved Christine around the room, my eyes thirsted for her perfect form. Six weeks had gone by without a single glimpse of those silken curls and porcelain skin, those rosy cheeks and wide brown eyes. I was starved for Christine; I needed to watch her, to drink in the sight of her as if it would satiate my lonely soul. And watch her I did, until the music reached a brilliant, trumpeting crescendo, and the boy held her close, his lips lowering to catch hers in a brief but passionate kiss.

I suddenly snapped back to reality, fury and adrenaline surging through my veins like powerful drugs. Enough was enough. The time had come at last to reclaim the power which was rightfully mine… the Phantom of the Opera had remained quiet far too long.

My cloak whipped out behind me as I climbed back up through the trap door and made my way toward the top of the grand staircase. Beneath my feet the walls throbbed to the tempo of the blaring trumpets as the chorus' voice rose once more.

_Masquerade! Paper faces on parade—Masquerade!_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you_

_Masquerade! Every face a different shade—Masquerade!_

_Look around, there's another mask behind you_

I hesitated for a moment before slipping quietly out of a door fashioned seamlessly into the wall. Those who were closest to me were absorbed in the dancing, and paid me no heed whatsoever. Slowly and silently, so as not to attract premature attention, I crept toward the top of the staircase, unfurling the long velvet cape from my waist so it cascaded on the floor behind me. I paused just behind the large pillar, my eyes roaming the room as I allowed the chorus to finish one final verse…

_Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads—Masquerade!_

_Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you_

_Masquerade! Grinning yellows, spinning reds—Masquerade!_

_Take your fill; let the spectacle astound you…_

Then, taking a deep breath, I took a bold step forward to stand in plain view of the entire gathered audience. I held my chin high with a confidence I did not feel as the music died, meeting the terrified stares around the room with a defiant glare. There was a collective gasp, and all went silent. No one moved or breathed… they were all waiting on me. For once, little Meg Giry did not pipe up with a comment about the Phantom of the Opera; she did not need to. They knew. They all knew.

The Opera Ghost had come at last to fulfill his promise.

_A/N: -can do nothing but shake head and point- This. Is. INCREDIBLE. Almost TWO FULL PAGES OF REVIEWS for one measly chapter? And a FILLER at that? You guys rock, really and truly rock, but…but… -whimpers and stops before I get more objects hurled at me- Will a humongous "thank you" cover it? No? How about "thank you" and seventeen trays of fresh, hot, gooey cookies? Will that do? –puts them up for grabs- _

_Moonjava: Thanks, hon! Glad you like it. :)_

_Arwen1604: I made your day? –feels all shiny- Aww, wow. Thanks! LOL… yeah, it doesn't get much better than Erik mouth-to-mouth resuscitation._

_Noelle: -ducks and catches it- HA! Feeble attempts, my dear! You're gonna have to throw more than that to get me to admit defeat! LOL… alright, I will agree with you on that ONE POINT… I'm pretty sure the phangirls enjoyed the bath scene. BUT I could have written it terribly, no grammar, no spacing, NADA, and they'd still love it, merely because it's Erik in a freezing cold pool of water. –grins- So… really, that speaks nothing of my writing ability. Sorry. Better luck next time, though! ;) Oh! And people, go and read her story and REVIEW… it's phreakin hysterical! _

_RainsPhantom: -blushes- Fantastic? Wow… that's a strong adjective right there. How about "okay" or "decent" or maybe even "acceptable"? LOL. Either way, I'm glad you reviewed… I know, right after vacation is the hardest time to do ANYTHING but laze around… I just got back from the beach boardwalk and had ten people on my back begging me to update both stories, so I not only had to review my favorites, but WRITE my own… -sighs- LOL. I know how it is, and the feedback is always treasured. Thanks so much! (And yes, there's going to be a swordfight, and YES to your unanswered question, Erik WILL put a big bleeding gash in Raoul's arm. haha)_

_Haizea: LOL… you are SUCH a sweetie, you know that? You make me laugh, which is quite an accomplishment this early in the morning (pre-coffee, don'tcha know?). I know, I know, I'm VERY sorry about the slow updates, but finals are over now… heck, SCHOOL is over now, for the next two months. That means eight glorious weeks of regular updates on both stories. I love writing them, and APPARENTLY you –cough-crazy people-cough- enjoy reading them, so it's good for everyone, no?_

_LePetiteChristine: HAHA… yeah, Hil, you're right, the torture chamber was your idea. –bows to your brilliance- Glad you liked the longer chapter. This one isn't short, but it's not quite as long as the previous one. And WHEN are you updating, little missy? I've been waiting oh-so-patiently… I'm gonna have to start bugging you or poking you or making you sing or something… bwahaha!_

_Marianne Brandon: Yes, I love mischievous Erik too. :) Oh wait, I love ALL versions of Erik… haha… but yes, he's best when he's sneaky. There's just something shudder-worthy about him stalking around the Opera in the cloak of night, taking a saddle here, a flask of gunpowder there… lol. Thanks so much… your support means everything to me. Your praise is like… second best to Gerry himself dropping by my house to congratulate me on writing this story. –snorts- Yeah RIGHT! LOL. But seriously, thank you so much, Em. Coming from you, praise is both stunning and unbelievably flattering. Just don't be afraid to criticize too:)_

_Ever Rin: It was your review which spurred me to action on that E/C, you know. Hope it lives up to your expectations. :) Ooh, I'm glad you liked the saddle part. I had to give Erik SOME way to lash out at Raoul. Lol. _

_Mel: Thank you:D Unfortunately, no… this story is going to follow the movie storyline, and I can't change the ending. :( However, if you're looking for a happy-ending E/C, I posted one specifically for that purpose. Mmk? _

_Lady G: -laughs and rolls eyes- Ah, Lyss, what to say, what to say? You know you love Erik… he's irresistible. LOL. Thanks for the reminder. I know the "which" rule (my AP English teacher covered it countless times), but I was pretty tired when I wrote that chapter and didn't bother to proofread. Haha. I'll go back and edit ALL of the chappies this summer for little grammatical errors throughout the phic. Again, thanks for the note—it's good that SOMEONE'S catching my stupid errors! Lol_

_Shadow Fox Forever: -bows at your feet- THANK YOU! Omg, FINALLY someone agrees with me and has the nerve to say it! I was totally disappointed in that chapter… haha, you probably didn't expect me to be like PRAISING you for disliking it, but I AM. LOL. Thank you SO MUCH for being honest! Woo hoo! Take THAT, Noelle! _

_Sakume: Aww, you're so sweeeet! –beams- Yeah, I suppose you're right… it's not about me liking it, it's about the readers, and if you're happy, I'm happy. :) Erik appreciated the towel, btw… I've hidden all of mine from him so he has to air dry. Muahaha! LOL._

_Joanieponytail: -happy sigh- How do you manage it, Joanie? Even when I feel like I've completely screwed up a chapter, you come along and leave me this beautiful, detailed review and I feel like I'm accepting the Pulitzer. I can't express how much I treasure your feedback. That said, I've never in my life had to put "eat something?" on a to-do list either. Silly Erik! ;P I cringed while writing Erik's bath too… haha. 'Nough said. _

_The Cure: -does new reviewer dance- Thank you so much:D_

_DaydreamingTurtle: -smiles- OMG, there is no better compliment on that chapter, because that's EXACTLY what I was trying for. Erik pulls so many unbelievable stunts throughout the course of the film, and I do my best to find suitable explanations for them. He IS human, and while his VOICE may be magical, he doesn't have super powers. He has to work with the same limitations that everyone else does, along with the extra burden of his face. He's just exceptionally intelligent. Lol. Thanks a ton… you've made my day:) And no, to answer your question, I haven't read it; I did a bit of historical research on the time period and thought it might be plausible for a landmark such as the opera house to be used as a secret bunker. –shrugs and smiles- _

_Seablue4u: Thanks:) –does new reviewer dance again- I wish I could… -points to Gaston and Andy- It's THEIR fault, I tell you! I didn't write the story! If I did, there would have been a much more likeable heroine than Christine and she would have chosen Erik over Raoul, alas it's not mine. :( -tear- _

_Adlyb: LOL. I know, I'm rather confusing, aren't I? I think the problem with people not understanding this story is that I broke away for those "three months of relief, of delight" and added in my own scenes. Let me clarify. This is based on the storyline of Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera movie/musical. I'm including all of the scenes from the film (well, at least those which include Erik) and additional scenes to fill the time gaps. There are a few references to Kay and Leroux in there as well, but nothing too major. For example, I debated whether or not to include Nadir for awhile, and finally decided against it. Anyway, now those "three months" are over, and I'm back to the original storyline. From here on out, it'll be all ALW until the very, very end. I hope that makes a bit more sense… haha. –does new reviewer dance- Thanks SO MUCH for taking the time to read this whole thing… whew! I wouldn't have the patience! XD_

_Erik's Dark Lullaby: Well, thanks for your understanding:) You guys are so easy on me… I expected a truckload of complaints for the boring filler. Haha. Well, I skipped over a bit of time in there… everything was in order, and I didn't want to take the time and space to add ANOTHER filler before the Masquerade. Hope it didn't seem too choppy. –nervous look-_

_Venus725: Ooh, hope the vacation was/is fun! I just got back from vacation too. –content sigh- Good times, good times. Sorry to disappoint you, but I wanted to save "Why So Silent?" for its own chapter, just because it rocks, haha._

_LoveroftheArts: I know, I love the Masquerade! –grins- It's my mom's favorite scene, so I've watched it a billion times. I'm so glad that you understand the importance and necessity of fillers, even if they are a pain in the neck. :) Thanks so much!_

_Hriviel: Ah ha! –beams- You caught the "mousy brown hair" line… hehe. Yep, your influence all the way. It's just so TRUE… when you used that phrase, something just clicked in my brain, and I can't seem to get it out. :) So much for originality. LOL. Thanks for the note about his initials on the binding… Jenna saves the day AGAIN! That's TWICE in one chapter! –bows repeatedly at your feet- You're my savior, Jen! You rock my socks:D _

_Sandy: -tackle hugs for my 300th review- I know, I know, it was BORING and LONG and I hated it, but I'm glad you understand that it was necessary. Buckle in for a lovey dovey, mushy, sappy E/C moment in the next chapter! –squee- I love "Why So Silent?"! _

_Tink8812: Nowhere! I'm still here:) Woo hoo! Someone to commiserate with me over the headache-inducing fillers! LOL. Glad you liked the mannequin comment… I do try to add in some humor to lighten this phic up every once in awhile, otherwise it just gets depressing. The Christine replica "watching" him search fruitlessly for a towel was just too much to pass up. XD Yes, Erik reminds me of a sad, shy little boy MOST of the time… he never really had much of a childhood, so I suppose he's making up for it now, hmm? _

_Phantomluver1000: YAY ANGST INDEED! Lol. I looove angst! Angsty!Erik is probably my favorite to write, followed closely by Naughty!Erik. Tee hee. Plenty of angst a'comin… hang in there! –does the new reviewer dance- _

_Chocobo Surprise: WOW, that might be my longest review yet! –glomps- You're too sweet:D Ooooh, SPECIFICS! I **LOVE** specifics! –dances around happily- Yep, Madame Giry is my all-time favorite Phantom character (besides Erik, of course)… leave it to her to be bitterly sarcastic and cynical one moment and maternal the next. She's great. :) I know, I know, everyone hated the ending to chapter 23, but that's what my new story is for. LOL… glad you liked 26-29… I heart Naughty!Erik SO much! It kills me that other authors ignore that side of his personality… it's a sin, I tell you! XD As for the list, I had a jolly good time writing it (especially the bath scene… -cough cough-). I think Erik's the only guy ever in the history of the world who had to write himself a reminder to eat. LOL. "And I know that if I suddenly found out that the thing I thought was the spirit of my father for ten years was actually a (strangely attractive) masked man who made a friggin' wax statue of me and wanted to marry me? Yeah, I don't think I would handle it very well either." OMG that comment had me in STITCHES! XD You know, you could be Christine's lawyer or something. LOL. Sorry, I still hate her, but it was a VERY good attempt! –rolling around on the floor laughing- You're very welcome for Kay's "Phantom," by the way. Hope you're enjoying it! _

_Psycho-Playgirl: OMG, all THREE? Whew, if that isn't devotion, I dunno what is! –glomps- You're phreakin awesome! I only posted "Evergreen" on the fifteenth, and already you've read and reviewed ALL of my phics? I don't even know how to thank you! –glomps again- _

_GEEZ, people! Pretty soon my reviewer responses are going to take up more pages than the actual STORY! LOL. You know I love them, though, so please drop me some feedback:) "Why So Silent?" should be up VERY soon, as in by this weekend. Thanks again, from the bottom of my widdle Erik-loving heart:D _


	31. Why So Silent?

_A/N: Hi everyone! –waves- I must admit, I loved writing this chapter. I watched the scene at least eight times for reference, so the details should all be pretty accurate. –crosses fingers- Sorry this wasn't up sooner; I went camping with my family and didn't have computer access. _

_Disclaimer: Alright, if you STILL think I own "The Phantom of the Opera," you need to have your head examined. Check your local insane asylum for vacancy. If all nearby facilities are full, you can always just crawl into the basement of an opera and create your own nifty lair with a cool lake and candles and stuff. –giggles- _

Never in my life had I felt so powerful. Every eye in the room was turned upon me. The women clutched to their husbands' arms while the men trembled in their boots. No one dared to move or breathe, for fear of attracting unwanted attention. The room rang with a deafening silence as I glared around the hall, raising my chin defiantly.

It took every last ounce of willpower to stifle a mocking chuckle as I took in the uproarious sight. Oh yes, they feared me… and fear meant respect. It was an utterly satisfying feeling to know that every last one of the elite swine was reciting "Hail Mary's" under their breath as I towered above them.

With deliberately slow, jolting steps, I descended the grand staircase, thrilling as the audience flinched at every stride. For a fleeting moment I glanced at the vicomte, sizing him up with a quick once-over. His face was twisted with a combination of incredulity and anger, but the second we made eye contact his eyes darkened challengingly. I responded merely by raising my chin a bit higher and sweeping my gaze around pointedly at the terror-stricken audience. I could not keep a small grin from the corners of my mouth as I began to sing.

_Why so silent, good messieurs? _

_Did you think that I had left you for good?_

I chanced a glimpse of the managers; the petrified look on their faces clearly answered my question. The continual urge to burst out laughing began to take its toll on my burning lungs, but I managed to keep my voice and expression steady and evasive. Now singing directly to the managers themselves, I watched amusedly as Andre visibly began to quake in terror.

_Have you missed me, good messieurs?_

_I have written you an opera!_

This prospect did not seem to surprise the two dimwits, nor anyone else in the room. I raised the leather-bound composition for inspection, but didn't dare look at the vicomte for fear of bursting into uncontrollable laughter.

_Here, I bring the finished score:_

"_Don Juan Triumphant!"_

In one swift, fluid movement I tossed the opera at Andre and Firmin's feet and unsheathed the sword at my hip. I glared suspiciously around the room once more, holding the sharp weapon menacingly in front of me. I recognized the danger of my situation; I was just one man, and I was surrounded by at least two hundred men of equal strength. If they so decided, I could be tackled, gagged, and whisked off to prison before a scream could rise in my throat. Fortunately, the fools were wildly superstitious, and didn't dare defy the Red Death himself. Humorous what one altered costume and an air of utter confidence could achieve.

Once I was sure that none of the bloody cowards within the room were brave enough to challenge me, I laid the blunt edge of the blade harmlessly in the palm of my gloved hand, adopting a more amiable posture and tone.

_Fondest greetings to you all…_

_A few instructions just before rehearsals start_

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as the vicomte touched Christine's back reassuringly before ducking out of the room. I snarled inwardly at his cowardice— he was a most unworthy opponent. Did he not realize that with very little effort I could snatch up his fiancé and refuse to let her leave my lair? Of course, the thought of kidnapping Christine was positively revolting; I had never taken her anywhere without her consent, and did not plan to unless dire circumstances presented no other option.

Ignoring the boy's idiocy for the moment, I wheeled around to face my first victim, goose bumps shooting up my arms at the thrill of finally confronting my largest source of aggravation in person. It was good fun to play harmless little pranks on Carlotta from behind the scenes, but to publicly humiliate and degrade her to her overly-makeuped face was another thing entirely.

_Carlotta must be taught to ACT,_

_Not her normal trick of strutting around the stage!_

I jabbed the tip of my sword into her extravagant headdress (I believe she was dressed as a peacock, but she squawked and dressed in elaborate, birdlike costumes so often that I honestly couldn't tell the difference) and jiggled it around for good measure. The stupefied look on her face was worth all the gold in Persia, and I savored it for a moment before her portly manwhore stepped forward indignantly. I was ready for him, and shifted the tip of my sword to his gut with a condescending glare.

_Our Don Juan must lose some weight_

_It's not healthy in a man of Piangi's age._

I offered him a small, sporting nod as I pointed the sword briefly at his turban-wrapped head. My lips curled in a smirk as I turned once again to the managers. They had been the ringleaders of this mad circus, and it was high time to remind them of their place in _my_ opera house.

_And my managers must learn_

_That their place is in an OFFICE, not the arts!_

The expressions on the managers' faces were enough to make me double over in peals of laughter, but somehow I managed to tone it down to a triumphant smile; as I lifted the sword ominously at each of them, Firmin resembled a ruffled housecat while Andre's eyes bugged to the size of saucers. I could not help but wonder as I looked upon the latter whether or not he knew now from whom his wife's tip-off about Sorelli had come. However, while the two men were immensely entertaining, I had other, more important issues to attend to.

Softening my voice and expression, I returned the sword to its sheath and slowly spun to face my young pupil. Her eyes were lowered shamefully like a disobedient child.

_As for our star… Miss Christine Daaé…_

She raised her eyes briefly at the mention of her name, and I looked quickly away to address the rest of the audience.

_No doubt she'll do her best_

_It's true, her voice is good…_

I couldn't help but laugh at the understatement. None of the people assembled here had ever witnessed the true potential of her voice; she only sang with her entire heart and soul when trying to please her Angel of Music. I did not allow her to sing with anything less. Of course, as compared to Carlotta, it was understandable that the crowd still begged for another performance from the little chorus girl-turned-diva. I returned my gaze briefly to Christine, opening my arms to her as I descended another few stairs in her direction.

_She knows, though,_

_Should she wish to excel_

_She has MUCH still to learn_

_If pride will let her return to me,_

_Her teacher…_

I whipped my head around to look pointedly at Madame Giry for approval. How many times had she lectured me about the extent of my affiliation with Christine? By now I was so desperate for her presence that I was willing to accept any form of relationship, be it mentor, lover, or friend. I knew that the first was now the most appealing to everyone but myself, and was more than willing to adopt the role of Angel once again if it meant having Christine back. Giry dipped her head subtly, her eyes sparkling in approval. Encouraged by her consent, I turned my head hesitantly to search Christine's eyes for her feelings on the matter.

_Her teacher…_

My voice faded to a whisper as I looked into the depths of her wide brown eyes. Any air of haughty superiority dissolved in those beautiful pools. The look in her eyes melted my soul and lit a fire in my heart. It was the look I had longed for my entire life, and never been granted. She _wanted_ me, longed to return to me as much as I longed to have her back. I nearly cried for the beauty of it.

Lost in her eyes, the world suddenly dissolved around me. Countless times I had read of such an experience in literature and scoffed at the mindless romanticism of the idea. Now I had no doubt. There was no one in the world except Christine and me, no barriers to separate us from one another ever again. My heart nearly burst as she took a step closer to me, her eyes soft and imploring. I returned the gesture a bit more hesitantly, fearing that even the slightest movement would break the spell and remind her of whom she was staring at. But she did not look away, nor did the yearning look in her eyes disappear. Instead, she took another step forward, and I responded eagerly with two of my own until she stood close enough to touch.

In the back of my mind I registered the quick tapping of footsteps on marble, but dared not break eye contact with my beloved. Our breathing was shallow and irregular as we remembered the last time we had stood so close…

My hungry eyes finally left hers to roam her beautiful face. I could almost taste the soft skin of her neck, feel the way her curls entwined with my fingers. Slowly, my gaze drifted downward of its own accord to her pale collarbone and further still…

But before my eyes could consume their fill, they snagged on the large, glittering diamond hugged between her breasts. My temper flared like an enraged dragon, spitting flames as it built power within me. Now I fully recognized the approaching footsteps as belonging to the vicomte… they were the same ones that I had carefully identified while lurking in the basement of the Setting Sun.

I met Christine's gaze once more, this time with a scornful disappointment blazing from my sharp blue eyes. I reached up to her neckline and snapped the chain with a single, harsh yank.

_Your chains are still mine!_

I leaned forward so our faces were mere centimeters apart, baring my teeth as I hissed at her, "You belong to _me_!"

Ignoring her confused and wounded expression, I whirled around and raced up to the seal of the Opera Populaire in long, quick strides. Without looking away from her, I snatched the train of my cloak up into my hands. At the bottom was a small burlap sack of gunpowder, sewed with thin, easily-breakable stitches into the hem. I had tucked a match into the folds of the fabric as well, securing it with only a few loose threads. I subtly grabbed each of these, pulling the ends of the bag open as I dug my toe into the corner of the seal. Giving Christine one last once-over, I struck the match and kicked down hard with my heel. The trap door gave way, and I tossed the gunpowder and match into the air above me as I fell, covering the movement with a whirl of my cloak. I could hear the audience gasp in glee and surprise as I "disappeared" in a puff of flame just moments before landing on the solid ground of the torture chamber.

Above me, I could hear the vicomte's stride pick up speed until he was positively bolting for the trap door. With a sigh of annoyance, I made for the mirror on the far left, prying into the hidden lever with a practiced hand. The mirror slid open easily, and I crept through just as the vicomte dropped down after me. I was careful to make sure the exit was securely closed before turning to the controls. Grinning maliciously, I placed the setting on shift, and spun to watch as the vicomte wheeled around in confusion. It was a simple contraption, really… the mirrors were all attached to a system of pulleys and springs which allowed them to shift in forty five degree angles in any direction. Nevertheless, it was a very effective illusion, making the victim feel dizzy and trapped.

Putting on my best menacing glare, I decided to up the vicomte's frenzy and remind him of my presence. I stepped between the two mirrors in front of me as they parted, so my reflection showed on every surface of the room. The boy was armed, and he slashed desperately at a mirror on the opposite side of the room. Laughing under my breath, I shifted to the next set of mirrors, watching with mounting amusement as he lashed out again, his eyes wild. His strokes grew more frantic and clumsy, and I finally grew tired of waiting. He had been idiotic enough to follow me… now he would die for it.

Turning back to the controls to the room, I pulled the lever which lowered the Punjab lasso just above the vicomte's head. He hacked wildly at it, whimpering as he panted for breath, but just as I was about to enter the room and finish him off, Giry appeared through the tunnel from the fourth cellar. She said nothing, but shook her head at the arrogant boy with a sharp sigh. Giry quickly snatched his wrist and glared at me through the mirrors before tugging the vicomte off in the direction from whence she had come.

I considered traipsing off after them, but quickly decided against it with a sigh of defeat. The costume was too burdensome and stifling, and I had no real desire to murder Madame Giry. She was one of the few people who kept my opera house together; without her, the _Populaire_ would quickly spiral into chaos.

Swearing under my breath, I gathered up my heavy cloak and headed down the opposite tunnel towards home.

_There will be other times, _I told myself glumly. _You will have the vicomte's blood soon enough._

_A/N: Sorry, not a very good place to end. –sighs- Didn't know where to stop it. Okay, so now I have a favor to ask of you. WHEN you review (LOL—notice, not "if"), would you please cast a vote as to whether or not you want me to include "No One Would Listen"? I'm leaving this up to the readers. Thanks!_

_Kat097: LOL! Oh, your review had me in stitches. –giggles- I know, I know! Evil cliffie! It's a sport among phanphic authors: who can make their readers go the most insane? _

_Shadow Fox Forever: -bows- Oh, I'm very glad you thought so. It's those damned fillers… I hate 'em. HECK YES TIGHT LEATHER PANTS! LOL. _

_Moonjava: Woo hoo! Thanks! I'm so very glad you like it!_

_Ever Rin: OMG! LOL. You're making me blush like crazy! But… but… it IS! –sighs in defeat- Alright. For your benefit, I shall refrain from calling my work "measly." I'm sure I can find other synonyms. –cackles- But thank you… you are SO sweet! I hope you're liking the E/C too. :)_

_Arwen1604: Thank you! Aww, chocolates for ME? –beams- Well, how 'bout this? I'll keep updating as quickly as possible, and you work on trying to send electronic chocolates! Haha._

_LoveroftheArts: -grins- Yep, gotta love Erik's appearances. :D He's so awesome… especially in the Red Death costume! –swoons- _

_RainsPhantom: Oh my, you've discovered my weakness! –melts- Erik and Nadir puppy eyes? Who can refuse! YAY! I'm glad you like the detail… sometimes I'm afraid I overdo it a bit. Haha. _

_LaPetiteChristine: -giggles- Yes, Hil, you get credit for the torture chamber idea. You're just so MODEST, my dear! LOL. Yeah, you'd BETTER update before leaving for Australia, or you'll have a livid Nade on your hands! Dun dun DUN!_

_Mam'selle Erin: YAY! –does new reviewer dance- Wow, I'm… shocked! You "compulsively read" my story? –gapes- I think I dun got me a fan! LOL. Thank you so very much… you've made my day! Umm, as to where to find Kay's book, check your local libraries. It was a limited edition print, so the copies available for sale out there are usually somewhere around $90. I do have a copy saved on my computer if you'd like me to e-mail it to you as an attachment. Just drop me a message in my box and I'd be happy to help. Good luck!_

_Inkie Pinkie: LOL! Yes, yes he should… I mean, come on, Erik! If you're hot, just take the damn costume OFF! None of the phans would mind… haha. _

_Venus725: Haha, your review had me doubled over laughing. XD I know… when you're the author, it's great fun to watch the reviewers rip their hair out over cliffies. When you're the READER, it's just plain aggravating! –giggles- We're all hypocrites like that. Aww, thanks! I'm still shocked to have so many reviews. –huggles- _

_Haizea: -blushes- I love your reviews! –grins- What to say to that? Thank you so much… you DO make my day, and it's your continued support which urges me to continue writing even when I'm convinced that I suck at it. Writing these stories is an escape from my dull life too… it's quite thrilling to write from the eyes of the Opera Ghost! Glad I can be of service. –bows- _

_Erik's Dark Lullaby: LOL! OMG, wow… XD Don't DIE, silly! –laughing up a storm- I'm updating, I'm updating! Hehe… thanks so much; you flatter me! Have I ever mentioned that I LOVE your screen name, btw? _

_Sakume: -blushes five shades of crimson- Oh, please… I'm not worth all THAT! LOL. I do heartily appreciate it, though. –huggles- Aww, you didn't get any cookies? –bakes a tray especially for you- I loved the long review; thank you SO much, love!_

_Bea: -does new reviewer dance- Thank you! Nope, it's going to follow the ALW storyline from now on. Sorry. :( Okay, there's a problem with the online version of Kay's Phantom, but I downloaded it to my computer and I can email you the file as an attachment if you'd like. However, I do need your email address… lol. _

_Joanieponytail: -glomps- Oh, I'm SO glad you reviewed! I was worried for a while that you'd forgotten this story… you should have heard my sigh of relief when I got your review! Thank you… thought some of the ladies out there might appreciate the hot and sweaty Erik bit. ;) LOL! Hadn't even thought of the OG brand connecting to slash! XD _

_DaydreamingTurtle: LOL, join the club! I'm giddy most of the time… but I'm SO GLAD you like my story so much! –beams- I try… don't always succeed, but I try. ;) Yep, OG is on the cover… I was very careful to include that detail because a friend pointed it out and I checked the movie to be sure. I know, that chappie was pretty short, and a great deal of it was lyrics… lol. I kind of cheated. But this one is a bit longer, so I hope you like it. _

_BONANZA: Yup, he's got a great deal of self-control, that is until his temper flares. –shakes head- I think our dear OG needs anger management. LOL. Well, you'll just have to wait and see, won't you? _

_Alli Lynn: HAHA, mood swings? ERIK? NEVER! LOL. Yeah, he's a moody guy. Cackling diabolically one moment, sobbing and whimpering the next. –sighs- He's fun to write, though. :) _

_Lady G: Ah, so much to say… I could take up a page responding to your reviews, dearie. –laughs- I do appreciate the fact that you pick up on little mistakes. I thought I had changed it to "release" before I updated, but there were several different versions and I think I might have upped the wrong one. Also, nice catch with the walking on the walls… LOL. –slaps forehead- Meant to say "floor." Silly me. He's ERIK, not Spiderman. –chuckles- Ohh, what else? Ah yes. Glad I can amuse you so much… even if it is with "Pootsie's" suffering. –pouts- Poor baby. And YES, the POINT of that chapter in "Evergreen" was to make the readers feel sorry for Christine. It takes more work on some than with you, so I had to kick up the tragedy a notch or two. I love babies far more than the average human being, so it was the worst thing I could think of. _

_Chocobo Surprise: "Christine Vs. World"… LOL! Indeed! You do make me laugh… it's great. :D Yay! I'm glad you liked the idea of Erik and Giry collaborating; it struck me as fitting because he knows the words to the song that the monkey box plays. –shudders- That thing freaks me out. Anywho, the leather pants… haha. That actually came around because in a close-up shot of Erik in his Red Death costume, you can see that he's wearing a white shirt underneath the red velvet. So I figured he'd also be wearing PANTS… and my infatuated-with-Erik side just jumped at the opportunity to picture Gerry in skintight leather. LOL. I probably phrased it oddly, but when he first donned the pants, there wasn't a heat issue, because it was freezing cold down in the cellars. In the ceiling above the lobby, however, it's quite a bit warmer. –shrugs- Anyways, yes, the lyrics to "Masquerade" are awesome, but I had trouble understanding them too until I saw them written out. Tssk tssk, chorus:P _

_Electricdragon: -does new reviewer dance- Why, thank you! –grins- Erik's got a great sense of humor, and he's very funny in his own cynical way. ;) Glad you're enjoying it!_

_LilyEvansPotter4456: -does new reviewer dance AGAIN- Whew, you guys are great! Welcome, and thank you very much! _

_Alright, all done! Now scoot and tell me whether or not you guys want "NOWL"! _


	32. Voices Entwined

_A/N: -waves exhaustedly- Aah, this chapter was a headache! My cousin, Sandy, and I labored over the lyrics to the Erik/Christine lullaby for HOURS, making sure the rhyme scheme and syllable patterns matched… words were in character, not too sappy or redundant… lol. I now have an IMMENSE appreciation (even bigger than before!) for the Andrew Lloyd Webber/Charles Hart team— way to go, boys! –standing ovation- Also, hugs, kisses, and truckloads of love and gratitude to my cousin for co-writing and betaing this chapter. (And, of course, to my incredible beta, Em, whom I love, because she catches my silly OOC moments!)_

_Oh… and I know I'm going to be questioned on this. I purposely excluded Madame Giry's Tale. This isn't because I didn't like the scene, but because I thought it unrealistic. I mean, think about it! If Raoul trounced off after Madame Giry, leaving Christine alone in her room, why in the WORLD would Erik stay to hear his own life story? My answer: He wouldn't. –shrugs- Besides, I've thrown in several references to his childhood, the gypsies, etc. and there will be more where they came from, I promise! _

_Disclaimer: -heavy sigh- _

Strenuous as the evening's events had been, I did not sleep that night.

I alternated between being irked and amused as Madame Giry tugged the indignant, disheveled Vicomte through the staircase just above my head. The boy plagued her with incessant questions, but Giry brushed him aside dismissively.

"But who _is_ he? Where did he come from?"

"You mustn't ask me, Monsieur. Please, just return to the lobby. Your fiancée is waiting…"

I bristled at the mention of Christine, briefly squeezing my eyes shut in frustration. We had been so close to rekindling the embers of a passionate flame. The smoldering desire in her eyes had left me breathless and longing for her warm touch, but the second my eyes had fallen upon the ring, unbridled jealousy had reared its ugly head.

_Control… you must learn to _control_ your damned temper! _

I deflated slightly as the horrified look on her face hit me for the first time; in my rush to escape, I had ignored her wounded doe eyes and fled. Now the consequences of my actions sunk in, and I cursed vehemently under my breath. I fingered the ring I had snatched from her pale neck, pursing my lips thoughtfully. It was certainly one of the most extravagant pieces of jewelry I'd ever seen in my life; the band was made of solid gold, and the gem itself was a tremendous diamond, studded with a rim of smaller jewels. The ring boasted of an interminable fortune— a blunt promise of wealth and prestige, a luxurious mansion on a sprawling estate. In this, the Vicomte had me beaten; although I had saved much of my salary accumulated during Lefevre's tenure, I could not have matched the de Chagny family's prosperity even if I wanted to. Years ago I had purchased a small, run-down cottage on the outskirts of Paris just in case an emergency arose that necessitated that I leave the Opera house, but I never truly intended to put it to use. If… no, not if… _when_ I reclaimed Christine's heart, I doubted she would care to live in the sewers of the Opera Populaire for an extended period of time; I would need to purchase a suitable dwelling for my young bride.

But I was getting ahead of myself, I realized, shaking the thoughts away for the time being. First, I needed to find a way to apologize for my brash actions. Much as I hated to do it, I would need to don the façade of the Angel of Music yet again; I feared it was now the only way to coax Christine back into my arms.

I sighed deeply as I spiraled down the bleak, lonely tunnels toward my lair. It would take awhile for the ruffled visitors to file into their carriages and leave for the night; I doubted there would be any further dancing or socializing after such a jarring interruption, though gossip would undoubtedly run rampant for the next week or so. Christine would soon retire to her room for the evening, and I would be there to present my apologies in the best form I knew. In the meantime, I was nearly suffocating from the heat of my costume, and I desperately needed a drink.

Within seconds of entering my home, I had shed nearly all of my clothing and collapsed into an armchair, sprawled out like a cat in the sun. Fortunately the frigid December air cooled my burning skin in only a few moments. Sighing in relief, I rose to my feet and stepped over to the pool of filtered water. I stared in annoyance at my hideous reflection; the heat had flushed my cheeks a feverish, blotchy red, and the brown locks along the front of my hairline were matted with sweat. I quickly dipped my cupped palms into the pool and splashed open handfuls of the icy water onto my face and neck, allowing rivulets to stream down my bare neck, back and chest. For a moment I considered delving in entirely, but the recollection of my lack of a towel quickly dismissed the idea. I sipped some of the water in my desperate thirst, but didn't dare drink much; even when filtered, Parisian water carried deadly plagues.

After splashing my face a few more times, I climbed back to my feet and retrieved a clean outfit from the bedroom. The elegant silk tuxedo was light and luxurious against my skin, and I found myself moving with a corresponding grace, falling into the mindset of the character I had so meticulously created. I spent the next few minutes perfecting my suave appearance— I combed through the matted, damp tangles of my real hair before securing the sleek black wig, polished my leather shoes, slipped the ivory mask over the right side of my face, and finished off the outfit with a silk cravat. Standing before the full-length mirror, I was an entirely different man than the one I had seen in the water.

The Angel of Music stared back at me, his blue-green eyes dancing in the flickering candlelight.

With a small smile and a twist of my cloak, I swept off to the gondola. I deliberately took my time as I poled across the lake, gradually warming up my vocal chords with the aid of the cavern's flattering acoustics. Occasionally I would throw my voice at a gargoyle and listen while it sang with unmoving lips, just for practice and amusement. Ventriloquism had always been one of my favorite tricks. By the time I reached the opposite shore, I was calm and prepared to face Christine again.

I passed the hallway to the mirror of her dressing room, heading instead for the ballet dormitories. As I drew near to the younger girls' rooms I overheard several giddy bits of gossip concerning my appearance; I couldn't decide whether to be amused, flattered, or enraged when I heard one of the bolder ballerinas insist that I had been "devilishly handsome" in my Red Death costume. Blushing heatedly, I bit my lip, unable to smother a grin.

_Let's just hope Christine thought the same thing, _I mused. Shaking my head to rid myself of the distracting train of thought, I hurried off toward her dressing room.

I slipped silently through the trap door to the wooden crawlspace in Christine's ceiling, settling comfortably on my stomach for the time being. Little Meg had apparently worked herself into quite a fit, and was feverishly pacing the room.

"An Angel? An ANGEL, Christine? The Angel of _Death_, perhaps…"

She sighed. "Meg, please…"

"No! Christine, you followed him to his _lair_! Do you have any idea what could have happened?"

"You sound like your mother."

Meg continued as if she had not heard. "He could have _killed_ you, or worse! You saw what he did to Buquet!"

Christine's voice trembled slightly as she spoke. "Yes, Meg, I know." I closed my eyes, wondering if the same memories had permeated her mind when we had stood so close earlier in the evening. Obviously Christine had not shared the details of that night with Meg, and I could not help but flush irritably at her presumptuous claims. Young Giry was almost as bad as the Vicomte when it came to putting ideas in Christine's head about me. I would have to speak to her mother about it.

Meg sighed shakily, sinking onto the bed next to her friend. "You are not yourself, Christine," she said quietly. "I saw the way he looked at you… the way you looked at him. " She hesitated. "It was almost as if…" Her voice faltered, and it took a few seconds for Christine to press her to continue.

"As if what?"

"As if… you were in love with him." Neither woman spoke. I could almost feel the tension crackling in the air between them. After a moment, Meg rose from the bed and gathered her toiletries from the dresser. She paused at the door, adding a hesitant, "Then again, I might have been imagining things. It's silly, really… thinking you were infatuated with a ghost." She laughed hollowly. "Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight." Christine's voice was barely a whisper. The door clicked shut, and a heavy silence hung over the room. It was several minutes before her smothered, bitter sobs reached my ears. I clenched my teeth, fighting desperately to quell the urge to run down to her and envelop her in my arms. More than anything in the world, I hated it when my beautiful little student wept. Indeed, it had been the burning urge to soothe her tears that had moved me to sing to her that first fateful night in the chapel. Some things would never change, I mused.

Closing my eyes lightly, I began to sing. It was a wordless, haunting melody, which soared smoothly from note to note. I caressed her soul with the power of music, whisking her away from the ballet dormitories to lie in the embrace of the angels. Feather light, tender notes poured into harsh, sharp ones repeatedly, each time with fewer and fewer of the latter, as if gentle music was gradually overcoming pain itself. Finally the entire melody was composed of lingering whispers until it slowly ebbed into silence.

Christine's sobs had ceased while I sang to her, but as the music subsided she let out a whimpering cry. "Don't leave me, _mon ange_. Please, don't leave me!"

The muscles in my throat tightened painfully, and I swallowed hard against the tension. How could I refuse the request to remain in her company? Once again we were kindred souls, longing for one another's love. There was no greater feeling in the world.

I did not need to ask which song she wanted to hear.

_Hush now, my angel, _

_And listen to the night,_

_Let me sing to you,_

_Shield you from the light_

_Let me ease your pain,_

_With our sweet lullaby, _

_Let it dry your tears,_

_Please, angel, don't cry._

It was the same gentle lullaby I had sung to her when she was a small child, calling out for her angel in the night. She had been so afraid of darkness, I remembered— she saw monsters in every shadow, and had, ironically, been terrified of the ballet rats' stories of the Opera Ghost. Within the first year, however, she had grown restless during the day, knowing that with nightfall came her Angel of Music. Her nightmares had ceased for the most part, aside from the occasional dream of her father's death, but she loved her lullaby and still asked tirelessly to hear it. Eventually she had developed a musical response of her own, and she sang it quietly now, her sweet voice filled with nostalgia.

_Please sing me to sleep_

_With our sweet lullaby_

_Dry all of my tears_

_I don't want to cry_

_Your voice calms my soul, _

_Soothes me gently to sleep, _

_Caressing me-_

_Into slumber so deep _

Our voices rose together in a duet, and my heart swelled with love and pride in this remarkable young woman.

_Angel of music, _

_Sing our lullaby-_

_Let it surround us, _

_Both you and I_

_Together once again-_

_Our songs combined_

_Our souls meet as one_

_Our voices entwined_

My voice sounded empty without Christine's accompaniment, but I continued gently, picturing her beautiful face alight with joy at the familiar song.

_Listen to me, child, _

_Your angel and your guide_

_Let music calm you,_

_Leave the past behind. _

_I will protect you,_

_As your mentor and friend, _

_Come to your angel, _

_Let music descend_

Christine had gained confidence as I sang to her, and now her voice was full and rich, flowing over the notes like liquid gold.

_You eased my torment,_

_My doubts and my pain,_

_When you sang of love,_

_And whispered my name._

_So sing me to sleep_

_And free me from the light, _

_Calm and comfort me,_

_With your music of the night_

We sang together one last time, our voices softened by mutual love— of a child for her guardian, and a teacher for his remarkable student. There was no trace of the insatiable lust and passion that had passed between us earlier in the evening. For now, I was happy to remain her precious Angel… the last remnants of her beloved father.

_Angel of music, _

_Sing our lullaby-_

_Let it surround us, _

_Both you and I_

_Together once again-_

_Our songs combined_

_Our souls meet as one_

_Our voices entwined_

We both allowed the last note to linger softly in the air, reluctant to say goodnight. I opened and closed my mouth several times, trying to find the words to express my remorse and implore her to forgive me. Before I could speak, however, a knock sounded at the door. I listened with mounting frustration as Christine stepped over to the door and opened it.

"Oh, thank God!" she exclaimed, her voice breaking with a sob of relief.

"Christine, are you alright?" the Vicomte's concerned voice answered, followed by the brief sound of their lips meeting. Why was it that _every_ time the two of us had a tender moment, that damned boy interrupted?

"I'm—I'm fine," she lied. Raoul seemed to sense the hesitation in her voice.

"I saw that monster corner you on the stairs. Don't worry, my love; we'll go out tomorrow and buy a new ring… a better one!" I balled my hands into fists, biting down on my tongue to hold back a scathing remark. Amusing as it would have been to see the expression on his face if I had belted an enraged "I heard that!", the boy would undoubtedly insist on removing Christine from the room. Instead I contented myself with the fact that mere moments ago, his fiancée's soul had been entirely mine, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Yes, yes of course," Christine replied distractedly. I heard the bed creak as the two of them sat down.

"You needn't worry about him harming you, Christine," Raoul said quietly. "I'm going to sit by the door all night." He kissed her again and sang, _I'm here, with you, beside you, to guard you and to guide you…_

I gagged, clenching my teeth until my jaw cramped. Apparently she did not have the heart to tell him that her Angel had already _paid_ her a visit— let alone the fact that I certainly did not use the front door. For all his valiancy, the boy was painfully naïve.

"Thank you, Raoul. You're very sweet." She kissed him, and I glowered at the wall. "Goodnight, my love. I'll see you in the morning at mass."

"Goodnight," the boy replied with a kiss of his own before walking to the door. "Don't hesitate to call if you need anything. I'll be right outside."

"I'll sleep soundly, then, knowing you're there."

The door closed with a click.

Christine was silent for a moment before she lay down on her bed with a sigh. I stayed with her for hours, listening as she recited her bedtime prayers. But she did not sleep soundly as she had assured the Vicomte; she tossed and turned restlessly the entire time. I was still upset with her for flaunting around shamelessly with the boy during the masquerade and their brief encounter in the room, so I remained stubbornly silent, refusing to sing her to sleep.

Judging by the dim light that filtered through the cracks in the wood, it was about an hour before dawn when she rose quietly to her feet. I had almost dozed off myself, lulled into a kind of trance by the silence and lack of movement. When Christine suddenly got up I jolted out of my reverie, listening curiously as she headed directly for the door. Stretching my cramped muscles, I followed suit, crawling out of the wooden tunnel and down through the trap door to follow her toward the back of the opera house.

I was surprised to see her emerge in the stables. The grooms had just started their shifts, by the look of things, but the sun was not yet peeking over the horizon. Where would she be going, alone, at this time in the morning?

She approached a short, ginger haired man called Curly and placed a small sack of francs in his hand. "Monsieur?"

"Where to, Mam'selle?" he asked politely, his voice gruff and groggy with sleep.

"The cemetery," Christine whispered with a nod before stepping back into the Opera house. She hesitated before slipping inside the rear costume room, fingering through some of the darker outfits before settling on an elegant black dress and cloak. While she stepped behind a changing screen, I crept back outside to the stable yard. Curly was almost finished hitching up a pair of sleek black hackneys to an open carriage.

A smirk pulled at my lips. This was almost too perfect… I knew Christine went to the cemetery every Sunday, but never before had she left so early. Raoul was sleeping outside her door, snoring loudly enough to wake the dead (so much for being her gallant protector!), and there could not have been a more opportune moment to meet her again, face-to-face. I knew her routine by heart; she would undoubtedly ask for her father's guidance, on her knees before his grave, and I would be behind the tomb, ready to take her back into my arms. The plan was foolproof!

While Curly fumbled with the straps and buckles to the carriage I picked up a shovel that a stable hand had left propped against a stall, and approached him from behind.

With a single, deft whack of the wooden handle against his skull, I knocked him unconscious. Fortunately, no one was around to see us as I dragged his limp body to the nearest abandoned stall and shoved it inside. As a second thought, I took his cloak, wrapping it tightly around my shoulders and the right side of my head. I loped over to the carriage and finished hooking the horses to it before climbing into the driver's seat. I listened to Christine's approaching footsteps, but did not turn to look at her until she was settled in the passenger seat behind me.

"To my father's grave, please," she said. I nodded and turned back to the horses, chewing my lower lip thoughtfully. I had never driven a carriage in my life; I always either walked or rode César on short distance trips, and took the train on tediously long ones. But honestly, how difficult could it be? Certainly if the Vicomte could figure it out, so could I!

I slapped the reins experimentally on the horses' backs, as I had seen others do countless times. I nearly heaved a sigh of relief as they trotted forward, tossing their heads excitedly. Eager to leave the opera grounds as quickly as possible before anyone noted Christine's absence, I gave another sharp flick of the reins, urging the horses into a brisk canter.

We left the gates to the Opera Populaire behind, clattering off with all due speed into the misty morning.

_A/N: -crosses fingers- I hoped you guys liked it! _

_Mmk, the collective decision of my phaithphul reviewers was that I SHOULD go ahead and write "NOWL." Sorry to those of you who hate, loathe, abhor, etc. the song (You know who you are!)… you can always just skip that chapter! I promise I don't mind! _

_Inkie pinkie: LOL! Well, hello, it's ERIK! He might have a great deal of self-control, but he's a man too… _

_Haizea: Hehehe, yes, ahem… it was such a CHORE to watch it so many times! LOL. You're right; there's no such thing as watching it too many times. Glad you liked the details. :D Aww, I want an Erik teddy bear! Your friends are nice! Haha._

_Shadow Fox Forever: Haha, well it was bound to happen eventually. There are only so many ways of saying "It's good; I like it." But hey, I'm always thrilled to hear it!_

_Kat097: -joins you- MWAHAHAHA! Yep, they were scared outta their pants! (Well, no, not ACTUALLY… I don't want to see Piangi pant-less) LOL to the Raoul comment… yeah really. Swashbuckle away, oh foppish one! _

_LilyEvansPotter4456: Yeah, I try to give Erik as much of a sense of humor as possible without writing him OOC. He has more of a sense of humor in Kay than in Leroux, but I've always thought his witty notes to the managers were hysterical in the ALW musical._

_RainsPhantom: -giggles- Well, thanks. I CAN and I DO overdo things sometimes, but your faith in me makes me continue writing. Ahh, you've found my weakness! –can't refuse Erik's puppy eyes or pout- Alright, updating, updating! _

_Moonjava: Thank you! Always good to hear. :) _

_Venus725: -nods- Yeah, I looove "Why So Silent," and it was fun to write. The scene I'm looking forward to now is "PonR". –squee!- Have fun in HP Land; I'll be devouring the book myself as soon as I can get my paws on it. ;)_

_Hriviel: Ooh, eerie. –gapes- Maybe we're actually real-life clones of one another, Jen! LOL. ;) Yeah, I did notice it… so I kinda purposely kept the movements of his hands arms vague to make it somewhat believable. He IS a magician, remember. "POOF! Here's my opera!" XD Haha, yep, I like to tie in little nods to Kay whenever I can. Oh, thanks SO much! I had a vague idea of where it would tie in, but not precisely. Very helpful— how many times can you save me in the course of two weeks? LOL. _

_Electricdragon: LOL! That's probably my favorite line in this entire story. –giggles- Well, he IS! XD I'm glad you're enjoying the insults. They're fun to write… but a great deal of credit goes to ALW and Charles Hart, I'm afraid. ;) I'm not THAT ingenious!_

_Ever Rin: -smiles and bows- Thank you, thank you. XD Yeah, my friend Hilary pointed out that the room with the mirrors might be the torture chamber, so I ran with it. LOL… I'm surprised how many people don't know what "No One Would Listen" is! It's the deleted scene from the movie… an Erik solo. It's on the special features DVD if you have the special edition two-disk set. If not, borrow it from someone! Hehe. _

_Squirrel Maiden of Green: LOL, well I'm glad I could make your day. He seriously IS, though… hehehe! MUAHA, I love making parents give their kids weird looks! Mine have certainly raised a few eyebrows when I nearly fall out of my chair laughing at someone else's phic. ;) _

_Marianne Brandon: -still giggling- I think that might be one of my all-time favorite reviews, Em! Your post-11:30 babblings are MOST amusing. XD –GASP!- I forgot to give you a review response? –reverts back to last night- "Happy dagger, this is thy sheath! There rust, and let me DIE!" BAD me:( Yep, you're right about the "overly made-up face"… see why I'm in constant need of my trusty beta? –bows to your genius- As for NOWL… I think you were outvoted, love. –cringes at prospect of your "disaster beyond my imagination"- But you have NO OBLIGATION to read it whatsoever! Ok? _

_DaydreamingTurtle: Woo! I love making people giddy— but you knew that. ;) LOL… wow, everyone liked the "portly manwhore" comment… I wasn't expecting such a great reaction over that line! –beams- Haha, that was a very lukewarm vote over NOWL… "Uhhh, sure?" _

_SubtleFighter: Well, thank you! –does new reviewer dance- Mmhmm, Erik does love his power… not to mention insulting his enemies to their face while they stand there, completely dumbfounded. :D Haha, thanks for being honest… and the flattery was much appreciated! LOL. Nope, my beta also HATES "NOWL" with a passion. Unfortunately for you two, I think the majority ruled "yes," but I must reiterate that you can just skip over that chapter and pretend it never happened if you wish!_

_Adlyb: -waves happily- Welcome back! I know how depressing it is to go without computer/Internet access. My sympathies! LOL! "A collection of deleted scenes" You're making me blush. It's not all THAT good! Haha. :D Well you made my day. Thanks! LOL… and noo, I'm not going to kill Raoul in the swordfight! XD If you want some Fop-killing action, read my E/C. He's dead within three chapters. Haha. _

_Tink8812: -nods- Ohh, believe me, I'm Gerry OBSESSED! LOL. The funny thing is every time I see him, his eyes are a different color. Watching the movie yesterday, during Music of the Night in particular, every single time he moved, his eyes were a different color. Sea-foam green one moment, sky blue the next, iron gray the next, emerald the next… lol. It's one of my favorite things about him… his eyes are like the sea, constantly changing hues. I just chose blue because… actually, I don't know why. Lol. –shrugs helplessly- But thanks for the attention to detail— and kudos from a fellow Gerry fanatic (er… phanatic!). ;)_

_BONANZA: Haha, actually, it's somewhat intentional… I throw in a few wisecracks here and there to lighten up the incessant angst. –shrugs and smiles- LOL… this is hysterical… I'm glad people liked the "portly manwhore" line. XD Yeaaah, isn't it sweet when he melts? –melts at him melting- Hehe. Yeah, that was a bad excuse for a metaphor, you're right. ;) I do appreciate the constructive criticism, so thanks for being honest! _

_Erik's Dark Lullaby: -doubles over laughing- Why IS it that everyone commented on the "portly manwhore" line? XD XD Glad I could make your night; I've been reading your story compulsively for the past few days (one chapter a night, to make it last longer before I reach the end!) and I'm in love with your style. :D Aww… -blushes deep red- A gem? MY story? Awww… LOL. You're so sweet. Loved the toy-in-the-cereal-box analogy, even if I must object wholeheartedly. –shifty eyes- But so many of you have threatened to Punjab me if I keep dissing this story, so I think I'll wisely shut up. ;)_

_Joanieponytail: -happy sigh- Ah, Joanie, if only you could see the grin your reviews bring to my face! "Yes, if the girl had half the sense God gave grapefruit." OMG I was laughing so hard I nearly toppled out of my computer chair! And you had me beaming and blushing like a maniac with your compliments, as usual. :) Thank you, thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart! –bows elaborately and disappears in a flash of flame- _

_Sandy: -bows over and over and over again to your genius- Thank you SO MUCH for letting me use your lyrics, my love. Sorry I changed them so much; you know I love you! –huggles- Omg our sleepover was so phun… we need to do stuff like that more often! –SNORTS- Ahem, I believe I already showed you several pictures of Gerry with blue eyes to make my point, Little Miss Em-Is-Always-Correct-So-Screw-My-Cousin! LOL. ;) _

_Bea: Sure, I'll send you the story as an attachment as soon as I post this chapter. –nods- You're very welcome… I love Kay's style and depth. Hope you enjoy it. As for this story, -sighs- I know… it will KILL me to write those last scenes when Christine chooses Raoul. I'll go through several boxes of tissues, I'm sure:( _

_Chocobo Surprise: Aww, I'm glad! While watching that scene for erm… the sixth time?… I noticed that he looks pointedly at someone off-screen while saying "her teacher," and I was like OOH! Erik/Giry opportunity! Honestly, the woman is so awesome. :) I wish I could write more of her, but as it is I've included her probably too much. Glad you're enjoying their subtle relationship… more of Giry coming soon, I promise!_

_Sakume: Haha, it's okay, you're not the only one to ask. "No One Would Listen" is the deleted scene from Phantom. It's on the special features disk if you have the two-disk special edition. If not, you can read about it in this phic. –pats your head- It's alright, hon, you haven't failed as a phan! You just probably bought the one-disk DVD like I did (still bashing myself for it), so you wouldn't know. Have fun hugging Erik! _

_Becky: -does new reviewer dance ecstatically- Wow… you read that WHOLE thing? –stunned- If that's not devotion, I dunno what is! Thank you so very much! HAHA! Well I must say you and my friend Hilary were probably the only two that were HAPPY I made them stop in Ch 23! LOL. At least I pleased someone. :D _


	33. Wandering Child

_A/N: Mmk, this chapter is a combination of "Journey to the Cemetery," "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again," and "Wandering Child." Fluff ahoy! _

_Friendly Nade Hint of the Day: I've found that this chapter is SO much more beautiful if you listen to the soundtrack as you read. For those of you who have the two-disk set, start at track three (on disk 2) and go all the way through five. I just tried it— depending on how fast you read, you'll only need to pause it once or twice during WYWSHA. _

_Disclaimer: ALW all the way. _

The first obstacle presented itself just moments after we crossed the Parisian border. A harmless dusting of snow covered the ground, quickly turning to slush in the city streets. On the outskirts of the metropolis, however, road conditions grew far worse. During the day the warm Mediterranean wind and fierce sun melted the thin layer of snow, turning the country roads to mud. But at night, when the temperature dropped rapidly, the mud froze into slick ice.

Unpaved trails led through the woods and up to the northwest entrance to the cemetery, and as I urged the horses onto the first patch of the trail, anxiety clutched my lungs. I was a novice driver, at best, and though my skills as an equestrian were better than most, I was unsure of my ability to steer the beasts through the dangerous terrain. The horses tossed their heads restlessly as they sunk up to their fetlocks in freezing mud, and I murmured to them soothingly. Pressing my lips together, I eyed the roads ahead. The trail forked as it reached the edge of the trees, and as we drew slowly closer, I swallowed in dreaded anticipation. To the left, the trail was composed of thick, jagged ice. To the right, deep, murky puddles led off into the forest. I pulled the horses to a halt at the crossroads, eyeing each trail nervously while maintaining a cool, confident expression.

Christine leaned forward behind me, craning her neck to follow my gaze. She gasped softly at the sight and addressed me hesitantly. "Monsieur, if it's too much trouble, I can walk the rest of the way…"

I clenched my jaw resolutely, jerking the reins to the right. "No, Mademoiselle, it's not too much trouble," I said without looking at her, hoping she wouldn't recognize my voice. She seemed satisfied, for she sat back in her seat and remained silent for the rest of the ride. I clicked reassuringly at the frightened horses, trying to keep the wheels of the carriage along the sides of the puddles. The worst-case scenario would be that the carriage got stuck, at which point I could simply unhook the horses and help Christine ride bareback to the cemetery. Had I followed the other trail, there was a high chance the buggy could skid on the ice and collide with a tree, or tip over. I was not willing to risk Christine's safety; as it was, I was reluctant to risk her comfort. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no other option.

The horses trudged steadily through the dense black mud for nearly twenty minutes, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the first pale rays of dawn filtered through the trees at the end of the forest. However, my reprieve was not to last forever; the graveyard loomed on the horizon, eerie and ominous in the morning mist. A mounting pressure restricted my lungs— this was my last chance to woo Christine. If I failed this time, I would become desperate— violent. I wanted her of her own accord, not by force. Under the guise of the Angel sent by her beloved father, perhaps I had a chance. I was down to my last card; I _could not_ fail this time.

Upon reaching the wide, dry dirt path, the horses broke into a canter, their undersides and tails dripping with muck; they seemed as eager as me to reach the cemetery. The gentle, cadenced clapping of their hooves temporarily soothed my nerves, easing the clenched, twisted muscles of my stomach. If I concentrated hard enough, I could orchestrate any number of instruments to play a simple tune to the beat of their hooves. Closing my eyes for the briefest of seconds, I imagined a talented violinist— perhaps the very man I was taking Christine to visit— strumming vehemently on a fiddle to the established rhythm. My student's sweet voice began to accompany it, unbidden, and pacified my tension completely.

_In sleep he sang to me,  
In dreams he came  
That voice which calls to me  
And speaks my name…_

I smiled faintly, continuing on in silence until Christine directed me to the northwestern entrance, nearest to her father's grave. I nodded patiently, pretending not to know the way and glancing at her occasionally for further direction. Her choice of outfit was most distracting; she had chosen an extremely low-cut black gown with a tight bodice, and I found myself jerking my eyes away with burning cheeks. Finally we reached the correct gate, and I stared straight ahead, resisting the urge to watch her. I knew it was proper etiquette to help her down, but I preferred her to think her driver rude rather than chance her seeing my mask. Grabbing the edge of her cape so as not to trip, she stepped down from the carriage and strode through the massive iron gates. I urged the horses forward with a flick of the reins, and only when I was certain she was not looking did I turn to watch her.

Once we were safely around an obscured bend in the road, I hurried down from the driver's seat and patted each of the horse's velvet noses. I tied the ends of the reins to a nearby tree before sprinting off after Christine. She was moving slowly through the foggy graveyard, and for a moment I could do nothing but stare. Garbed entirely in black, her pale skin seemed to glow softly. Her eyes sparkled with tears, mingling with the snowflakes caught in her lashes. The bitter cold had tinted her lips a shade of deep crimson that almost matched the roses in her hands. As she moved, the mist swirled and parted around her feet, producing the façade that she was floating just centimeters above the ground. For a moment I blinked in disbelief; I could have sworn an angel herself was walking among the tombstones.

She whispered something I couldn't quite hear, and the sound of her voice snapped me from my reverie. I realized that I was standing in the open, gazing unabashedly at her. Should she turn around for any reason, she would undoubtedly see me.

_Get a hold of yourself! _I berated mentally, ducking behind a large statue of the Virgin Mary. Much more cautiously, I began to slink from one tombstone to the next, remaining a few steps behind her as we ventured into the heart of the cemetery.

My spirits lifted considerably as she began to sing, her voice tremulous and innocent in the still morning air.

_You were once my one companion,_

_You were all that mattered_

_You were once a friend and father_

_Then my world was shattered_

_Wishing you were somehow here again,_

_Wishing you were somehow near_

_Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed_

_Somehow you would be here_

_Wishing I could hear your voice again_

_Knowing that I never would_

_Dreaming of you won't help me to do_

_All that you dreamed I could_

I could not help but notice, as her teacher, that her voice had never been more beautiful. Once or twice I had overheard conversations among the opera's attendants— during _Hannibal_ in particular, a few women had gossiped excitedly about Christine Daaé, claiming to have heard her as a child when she had traveled with her father throughout Europe. Even at age four, they had proclaimed, she had a voice to rival the angels, and though she wore little more than rags, they had never seen a happier little girl. I wondered now, as I marveled at her soft song, how exactly Gustave had managed to coax such unadulterated beauty from his young daughter's voice. I had never heard her sing with such passion and love and devotion, even for her Angel of Music. That was the difference, I noted with a small nod: she was pouring her soul into the music, connecting with it, as she had never done before.

_Passing bells and sculpted angels,_

_Cold and monumental,_

_Seem for you the wrong companions;_

_You were warm and gentle_

She paused, her head bowed, trying to steady her breathing before she continued. My own eyes began to tear at her pain; all the fury accumulated over the past three months dissolved instantly, buried and forgotten. How could I ever have been angry with this precious, lonely, pained child? I had forgotten, in my own self-pity, that she, too, had a gaping hole in her heart, aching to be filled.

_Too many years fighting back tears_

_Why can't the past just die?_

_Wishing you were somehow here again_

_Knowing we must say goodbye_

_Try to forgive, teach me to live_

_Give me the strength to try _

The muscles in my throat contracted painfully as the familiar burning sensation gripped my lungs. How I hated to see her cry! Her voice was almost inhuman for its beauty as it broke with tears. I bit back my own as her father's grave came into view. Swallowing hard, I took a deep breath and tried my best to drown out her pleading voice. I was here for a purpose; I needed to be strong if I was to use her insecurity to my advantage. If I did not, I knew for a fact the Vicomte would.

Slipping around several snow-dusted angel statues, I reached the back of Gustave Daaé's massive tomb. I pressed myself up against it, making sure my cloak was out of her sight. The lever to the door was directly to my left, coated in rust from years of neglect. Christine had never actually entered the tomb; she was terrified of corpses, even that of her dear father. I began to form a plan… perhaps if I could get her inside, then shut the door, she would become terrified… and, as always, I would show up right in time to rescue her. Safe in her Angel's arms, she would contentedly follow me back to the opera house.

Nodding to myself, I licked my lips and prepared to sing as Christine's beautiful, mournful song came to an end.

_No more memories, no more silent tears_

_No more gazing across the wasted years_

_Help me say goodbye…_

_Help me say goodbye…_

I waited until the last note faded before settling on a familiar, comforting tune. I rounded my voice and threw it forward so that it surrounded Christine on all sides, coming from each stone statue and crystalline snowflake.

_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless,_

_Yearning for my guidance…_

It was déjà vu, almost; I was reminded starkly of our encounter in the graveyard of Perros Guirec. She had obeyed me then, and I was confident that Christine's love and longing for her father would serve to help me now.

Her voice was hesitant and frightened as it rose in a childlike response.

_Angel or Father, friend or phantom—_

_Who is it there, staring?_

I interjected a guilt-inducing question that quickly gained the results I wanted so badly.

_Have you forgotten your Angel?_

She sighed in relief, and I could hear the rustle of fabric and snow as she climbed to her feet.

_Angel, oh speak! What endless longings_

_Echo in this whisper _

I smiled triumphantly, pulling the lever to open the doors of the tomb as I sang gently to her, coaxing her forward and enchanting her with music.

_Too long you've wandered in winter,_

_Far from my fathering gaze_

I put as much emphasis on "fathering" as I could, so as to differentiate between the man who had nearly taken her innocence and the man who sang to her now. I did not want old memories interfering with the present. Fortunately, my plan seemed to work flawlessly, for she ignored her instincts and began to walk forward.

_Wildly my mind beats against you—_

I sang with her, quieting my voice to accompany and compliment hers. _You resist…_

_Yet the soul obeys! _ We sang together, our voices rising in perfect harmony. I took in a deep breath as we burst into the crescendo, singing with my entire heart, pressing my voice to its very limits.

_Angel of Music, you denied me/ I denied you_

_Turning from true beauty!_

_Angel of Music, do not shun me/ my protector_

_Come to me/ your strange angel!_

Slowly, so as not to interrupt my steady, rhythmic breathing, I began to climb the tomb, all the while singing to Christine, who had stopped just outside the door of the grave. It was the same tune I had sung to persuade her to step through the mirror, and I could only hope that it would work to lure her into the tomb.

_I am your Angel of Music_

_Come to me, Angel of Music_

I put as much emphasis into the words as I could, peering down to watch as her eyes closed lightly and she took a step forward. My heart pounded frantically in my chest; this was it— this was the moment I had been waiting for! At last, _at last_ Christine would be mine!

I should have _expected_ the horse's pounding hooves to clatter into the graveyard; I should have been prepared, waiting for him to race up at any given moment. But so absorbed was I in Christine that I did not recognize the Vicomte's presence until it was too late.

_A/N: 380 reviews… -shakes head- Craziness! Thanks so much, all of you!_

_Haizea: Hon, I will NEVER get tired of hearing it, especially from you! Glad you approve— I didn't think Erik needed to hear his own life story from her mouth while there were Christines (or at least one) to sing to. Thank my cousin for the song… I can't write poetry to save my skin, but I CAN make previously existing lyrics fit into a syllable scheme. Haha. So happy you liked it. :D Ooh… -jealous- Well give Erik a kiss for me! _

_Hriviel: -blushes- Thanks. :) I tried. The lullaby really WAS a headache, but I'm glad it worked for you. LOL to the Meg comment… yeah, normally she just squawks and screams and clutches to Chrissy. And LOL again… yes, Curly! Popped to the top of my head, so I just kinda shrugged and said "sure, why not?" XD Loved your latest chapter of APC… gorgeous, as always! _

_Sandy: -pulls a comfy couch out of thin air for the two of us to plop down on- Go us! Woot woot! That chapter was all you, babe. ;) In fact, THIS chapter is way better because of you… what would I do without you? But TWO WEEKS to finish? –rips out handfuls of hair- You're gonna give me ulsers and a heart attack! For you, though, I'll try my best…_

_Arwen1604: YEA for you! LOL. –hugs- Aww, you're sweet! I like hyper people! I'm hyper most of the time, you see. Hope you liked "Wandering Child"… it's my favorite song, I think. One of them, anyway. :) Yep, the swordfight is next, but Raoul is still gonna win. But don't worry, Erik will still throw him against a stone so he hits his head and then slash up his arm so it's good and bloody. –evil grin- _

_Electricdragon: Thank you! "No One Would Listen" is a deleted song that's on the second disk of the special edition DVD._

_Erik's Dark Lullaby: LOL. Awww. Well, that's quite a compliment, considering your alias. ;) Thanks so much, from both of us. Yeah, I can't wait for PonR… although it kinda sucks, because it's not very Erik-ish to say "And I looked damned sexy in those Don Juan pants, if I do say so myself." –sighs- But he IS! LOL. XD _

_Venus725: Two and a half days! That's how long it took me to finish "Half Blood Prince," but if it had been up to me, I would have made about five pots of coffee and stayed up continuously and just finished it. OMG it was awesome… best yet! –sighs- Done ranting, but whew, I LOVE Harry Potter. –nods- Calm before the storm, hmm? I like that. –smiles- Well, at this point, the first fork of lightning is about to crash down, so buckle your seatbelt!_

_Shadow Fox Forever: Thank you! So happy it was passable. :) _

_Adlyb: Haha, it's true. I'm very picky about phanphics too, and I've only found a couple that are EXTREMELY good. Mine doesn't fall under that category, but I suppose it's decent. Glad you're enjoying both of my stories… thanks for the reviews! _

_RainsPhantom: Ah, it's okay, I know who you are. :) Writing in the dark? Ooh, fun! Nope, hardly any typos- brava! LOL, yes, PonR is coming up, and there will be enough E/C tension and drama and love in the room to cut with a chain saw, I promise. _

_Joanieponytail: I'm glad you think so; I value your opinion highly. Aha, she caught the contrast! –a cookie for your find- :D Yeah, I had to add in the part about Raoul snoring; it was irresistible. You're right— every little annoyance helps. ;) Yes… while the plan was foolproof, it unfortunately wasn't fop-proof. –sighs- Poor Erik. He's doing his best! _

_SubtleFighter: Thanks! Nope, I wasn't really following a melody from the movie, because I wanted it to be original. –shrugs- The conversation between Madame Giry and Raoul DID take place, but Erik didn't overhear it. I understand the complaints about NOWL, but I also love Kay's novel, and in her story Erik truly DOES want to "rise up and reach the world" when he's a child, only to be shunned and learn to hate the world as an adult. So in my mind, I suppose it fits. Not quite sure yet where I'm going to put it… I don't like where the script calls for it. –makes a face- I'll probably just improvise, and when Erik's in the right mood, I'll just pop it in. As for why I hate Christine so much, that will have to wait for the next review response, because this is already getting lengthy and I could write a whole 'nother essay on my reasons. Haha. I should be a lawyer. _

_Blood Tears Dying Angel: Wa! Thank you! LOL. XD_

_Inkie pinkie: Yup, my cousin and I wrote the song together. Thank you. :) HAHA, yeah, Raoul snores. –scoffs- I bet ERIK doesn't snore. Oh wait. He hardly ever sleeps. –shrugs and smiles- _

_DayDreamingTurtle: Well, thanks for being honest. I was hesitant to write one, too… because yeah, it's very hard to pull off. –grimaces- I hope you DID like it, but don't ever hesitate to tell me if I screwed up! Oh I love making fun of Raoul… I adore him, really I do, but he's SUCH a good scapegoat! _

_Ever Rin: Published… LOL. Nah, not nearly good enough for that, but I'm glad you liked it! You've made our day (my cousin and I). :D _

_Chocobo Surprise: -tackle hugs- I LOVE long reviews! –squee- Yep, I totally agree with the Madame Giry appraisal. Much as I adore her character, it just didn't fit. Aww, thanks— I'm happy you liked the lullaby. :) YES, Raoul has this nasty tendency to burst in at precisely the wrong moment. –sighs- But I do still love him to pieces, and I can even agree to your Christine argument, which speaks multitudes of your potential as a lawyer. Haha. As for the "fathering gaze" line in "Wandering Child," how did the PotO in 15 Minutes parody put it? Oh yes. "DADDY ISSUES!" Not to mention the low-cut dress. I mean, COME ON. As for NOWL, it'll be a challenge, to be sure. But we phans know Erik has a soft side… I think the song is very Kay-ish, and I absolutely adore her Erik. Hopefully it will come out all right. –crosses fingers-_

_Morleigh: Thank you! Don't know if it's worthy of belonging in the movie, but I appreciate the compliment nonetheless. :) Nope, wasn't to any particular tune, because we wanted it to be original. –does new reviewer dance- Thanks so much for commenting! _

_The Queen Sarah: Well I'm sure it will be awhile before you read this if you have an entire story to finish, but I'm SO glad to hear the dialogue/singing worked! It's probably my weakest point as an author, but I tried to work with it. "Practically canon"… LOL! Hardly. But thank you. :) _

_Lady G: Alright, I think that is OFFICIALLY the longest review I've ever received. –smiles and shakes head- Yes, he IS rather dashing in his evening attire, isn't he? LOL! I made him "spiffier" than the movie? That's hysterical. Well, I did miss the ventriloquism. It's a neat trick, but kinda hard to portray in a movie. "Devilishly handsome" WAS actually somewhat of a pun, haha. He is the Red Death, after all. –nods- Yep, Meg had a Madame Giry moment… about time she did more than scream "He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" WOW, I didn't expect you to like the lullaby… I'm pleasantly surprised. The whole shielding from the light thing was supposed to be symbolic. Erik represents darkness, ya know… -sighs and shrugs- Ah well. YES, he does love her! He stayed up with her all night too, just like Raoul, except HE didn't fall asleep… -coughs- Anyway. Always fun to read your reviews, and I DO notice that you're being much kinder to Erik. :) Most appreciated, I assure you. _

_Sakume: Huzzah! It was a stone, I tell you, a stone! Or… he tripped on his cape! Yeah, that's it! Raoul cheated— he didn't HAVE a nifty cape! So THERE! Lol. ;) No, he is NOT gonna be happy in the slightest. We're about to have a good dose of Erik's temper. Haha. _

_LilyEvansPotter4456: -sighs- Poor Erik indeed. He TRIED! But no, of course, the fop had to intervene AS ALWAYS. Let the swordfight begin!_

_LaPetiteChristine: LOL! Slut-faced hoebag… heck yes! –huggles- I love you, Hil. Yep, I'm gonna include NOWL, but hopefully I'll get it up before I go back to CA, so I can just use my copy here. Thanks for the offer, though. :) _

_Mominator124: Oh wow! I remember you from "A Piercing Light of Hope"! –waves- From here on out it will follow canon, but there will be filler chappies in between "Twisted Every Way" and DJT. There will be an epilogue, however, which might make up for it. –secretive smile- Nope, the lullaby was totally original. I didn't want to screw up ALW's brilliant work. Haha. Aw, don't worry about being a slavedriver… -sighs and looks at other reviewers- Join the club. LOL, j/k. _


	34. Let It Be War

_A/N: Ai-yi-yi, this chapter was a pain in the neck! I royally suck at action sequences, let alone swordfights, so please don't Punjab me! –cowers- Think happy thoughts! PonR is up within five chappies! Woot woot! –does happy dance- _

_For those of you who read "Evergreen," I'm doing a double update— both "Solitude" and "Ev" in one night! So get yourself a soda pop and some popcorn, folks, and have a marathon. _

_Disclaimer: Erik is mine all mine, Raoul is mine whenever I'm in the mood, and the horseys are DEFINITELY mine. But as for Christine, pfftsh. Y'all can have her. (Actually, sadly, no, none of them are mine. Stupid Leroux and Webber and Kay get all the fun)_

I physically shook with unbridled rage, my tensed muscles trembling at the unwelcome sight of the de Chagny boy. Christine returned gradually to consciousness as he desperately called her name, leaping down from his untacked horse and catapulting up the stairs to stand beside her.

"Raoul?" Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion as she appeared to get a grasp on her bearings for the first time that morning. My lips twisted into a snarl as he took a hold on her arm, spinning her almost violently to face him.

"No, Christine, WAIT!" he said, his voice harsh with urgency, "Whatever you believe, this man, this _thing_, is not your father!"

My temper flared, a searing mixture of magma and adrenaline shooting through my veins. In one swift movement I unsheathed my sword and dropped down from the rooftop, growling savagely as I swung the blade at the boy's open chest. He ducked instinctively as I landed, throwing my cape out behind me. Taking a quick step back, he brandished his own sword challengingly. We paused for a moment, sizing one another up as Christine stumbled fearfully away from our ringing swords.

_Now, my dear, _I thought, _We shall prove once and for all who is the more worthy suitor. _

I allowed my fury to swell within my chest, propelling me forward with an almost inhuman power as I rammed my sword against the Vicomte's. He lost his footing almost immediately, staggering backwards under the force of my blade. We reached the edge of Daaé's tomb, and the boy fell backwards into the edge of the stone balcony. I lunged forward, ready to deliver the final blow, but he took me by surprise, using the wall to push himself forward. We were like animals, fighting viciously for the woman we loved, gnashing our teeth, growling and grunting as we exchanged blows and parries, plunging forward only to be pushed back again.

An idea suddenly occurred to me as my cape caught in the wind. Grabbing the edge of the black fabric in one fist, I whipped the cloak over the Vicomte's head. He faltered, momentarily blinded, and I jabbed my sword forward, hoping to catch him in the chest. Unfortunately he swung his blade at the last moment, blocking the blow, but the impact threw him backward. I watched with a malicious grin as he stumbled down the stone steps and landed with a thick thud at the base of a tombstone, smacking the back of his skull on the snow-covered cement. He was dazed for a moment, his limbs flailing like those of an overturned turtle. I leapt gracefully to the ground, shooting Christine a meaningful glare to stay put.

I had to give the boy credit: he was nearly as stubborn as I was. He was on his feet within seconds, though he swaggered slightly as blood seeped from a swelling gash on the back of his head.

_A pity, _I sneered. _All that sweat and gore will muss your perfect hair._

Smirking at the unspoken comment, I egged him on, trying to build his own fury. Though I had harnessed my own rage to my advantage, I observed that the more the boy got riled up, the sloppier his blows and footing became. With this knowledge I quickly became the dominant in this fight, opening my chest for what appeared to be an easy blow, only to block it at the last second and retreat a few steps, leading him in a series of footwork so complex it might have been a dance.

As the Vicomte became more and more frustrated and tired from relentless blows, I finally began to fight back a bit, using the cloak trick a few times to rotate around him and fight from a different angle. His bare chest heaved from the effort, glistening with sweat despite the freezing cold. I bade my time, circling effortlessly around him, sidestepping each of his complicated blows as if it were child's play. I had studied countless fencing books in my time, and, as with all arts, I had quickly mastered both the theory and the execution. The Vicomte had likely worked with a private trainer, judging by the complexity of his maneuvers, but the presence of Christine and his mounting vexation seemed to put a damper on his abilities.

Finally I managed to wear him down, and in an intricate combination of maneuvers I spun him in a dizzying circle, blocked his vision with my cloak, and sliced neatly through the flesh of his upper arm. Blood immediately soaked through the white fabric of his torn shirt, and he clenched his teeth to stifle a cry of pain. Beside us, Christine gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. I turned to look at her for a fraction of a second, and in that single moment the Vicomte managed to turn the tide of our fray. Tossing his sword deftly to his other hand, he surged forward with a fresh burst of energy, catching me entirely off-guard. I looked away from Christine just in time to block his sword, but lost my footing. It took several backward steps to finally right myself, but by that point the Vicomte had regained his self-confidence, pushing forward with a surprising amount of power. His eyes flashed like the sea during a raging storm, and he growled menacingly as he put every last ounce of strength into the fight.

It all ended very quickly after that. With one deft flick of the wrist he wrenched the sword from my grip, sending it flying to the snow-covered ground a few meters from my feet. I scrambled to retrieve it, but the boy was quicker, using the tip of his sword to knock it far out of my reach. I stumbled and fell, catching a face-full of snow and dirt. In the distance I heard Christine gasp again, and closed my eyes for the briefest of moments. So this was it. One careless mistake and my life was over. Well, so be it. I had nothing to live for, not without Christine. Panting heavily, I flipped over onto my back, meeting the Vicomte's gaze unflinchingly. If I was to die, I would do so while staring into the eyes of my killer.

He glared at me, raising his sword to shoulder-height, ready to deliver my fatal blow. I gritted my teeth, preparing for the splitting pain…

But it never came.

"No, Raoul!" Christine cried, her voice shaking uncontrollably. I nearly smiled despite myself, daring to hope that perhaps this little battle didn't matter. Was this her way of confessing her devotion to me? The Vicomte turned to look at her incredulously, and her wide eyes pleaded with him. "No. Not like this."

The familiar anger once again flooded my system, my eyebrows furrowing in disgust. _Not like this? Not like THIS? _Did she not care, then, if I died, so long as my blood didn't stain the immaculate hands of her precious fiancé? I gasped for air as the boy replaced the sword in his sheath, eyeing me one last time with a look that said blatantly, _I could have killed you._

I shuddered as he helped Christine onto his white stallion, kicking the horse forward into a quick canter. It was positively revolting… the knight in shining armor image associated with that boy made me want to vomit all over the disheveled snow. I could have beaten him within the first three minutes of the fight, but no… I had to go easy on him, bait him like a damned bull, and now Christine rode away with him, thinking she was in the arms of the more accomplished swordsman.

I stared after them until they disappeared into the mist, my eyes blazing dangerously in the silent graveyard, knowing that I had very nearly been among the dead.

"Now," I hissed, a sadistic smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Let it be war upon you both!"

I had been patient. For ten years I had gently guided my young pupil, molding both her voice and her soul to fill my standards. How dare she throw away her future for a blasted title and that goddamned pretty boy! I could give her everything she'd ever wanted… ever _dreamed_ of, if only she'd give me the one thing I asked of her. I had convinced myself over the past few months that it was entirely the Vicomte's fault— that he had brainwashed her, turned her against me. But just now she had proven where her allegiance truly lied, and I would not stand for it.

Damn patience. Damn trust. Damn _love_! What good were they? Christine had untaught all of the lessons I'd so painfully learned over a lifetime, and I was an idiot for being so weak. Now I would take the situation back into my own hands.

I would give her one last chance to redeem herself, and one chance only. Seduction and force were my only remaining cards, and I much preferred the former. Taking a deep breath, I began to formulate a plan.

_Don Juan Triumphant_ would either be my salvation or my damnation. I had poured my very soul into the piece, and if this opera could not seduce Christine, nothing could. If she denied me again… I would have no other choice but to physically drag her down to my lair, keeping her prisoner until she remembered herself and where her loyalties truly lied— with her _Angel_.

Feeling as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from my shoulders, I left the cemetery with one last whirl of my cape.

The horses seemed to pick up on my mood, for they tossed their heads and reared frantically as I cracked the whip over their heads a few moments later. Without the need to worry for Christine's safety, I urged them at a dangerously brisk pace through the black mud, up through the side streets of Paris, and finally along Rue Scribe. Leaving the whip in the driver's seat, I hopped down just outside the hidden entrance to my domain, giving a solid pat to each of the horses' steaming necks. Then, smacking their haunches soundly and clucking in the back of my throat, I sent them away, pulling the empty carriage. I didn't need to watch them turn the corner and trot into the stable yard; like any other domestic animal, they knew their way back home to supper and a cool drink. The thought of the expression on Curly's face as they trotted into the courtyard minus a driver only slightly lightened my sour mood.

I tried to keep my focus on _Don Juan Triumphant _as I picked my way through the dark catacombs, and by the time I reached home an expression of grim determination had set in my features. I would not allow the boy's slim success to put a damper on the situation; I was done sulking. Christine's well-being and success would have to be pushed to the bottom of my priorities list for the first time in a decade. After all, she had her precious Raouliekums to wait on her hand and foot now. Meanwhile, I had reclaimed my respect at the masquerade, and rekindled the fear of the opera's inhabitants. Now I had only to put my power to use.

I settled immediately at my desk, picking up a quill and several pieces of stationery. Dipping the end of the quill in my signature red ink, I went to work.

Nearly an hour later, I glanced up at the clock and replaced the quill in the ink pot with a nod. Seven letters were stacked before me, awaiting delivery. I sealed each one with my red skeletal seal and carefully tucked them into my cloak. Taking the stairs up to Christine's dressing room two at a time, I ended breathlessly behind her mirror, pressing my face to the glass.

She and Raoul were, as I expected, sitting on the divan, an open medical kit sitting open at their feet. Christine used a small cotton wad to dab the gash in his arm with rubbing alcohol, and he hissed through his teeth at the sting. I couldn't stifle a smirk at the pain I had caused him.

"Please, Raoul, you're going to have to hold still," Christine pleaded as she threaded a needle. I clamped a gloved hand over my nose and mouth to smother a cackle; he was squirming like a child!

"I'm sorry. I'll try," he said, eyeing the needle with a look of dread as she held it in a candle flame.

"This will hurt," Christine told him, her face twisting apologetically as she drove the needle into his flesh and tugged it quickly over the top of the wound. I leaned back against the wall, watching in utter amusement as he flinched and screamed through clenched teeth with every prick of the needle. It was impossible to tell who was suffering more, he or Christine, for both had tears streaming down their cheeks by the time she finished the last stitch.

"You were so brave, my love," Christine whispered, brushing a stream of tears from Raoul's jaw and awarding him a kiss on the lips. The boy reached up to hold the base of her neck with his good hand, deepening the kiss as his lips moved against hers. Now it was my turn to wince and snarl at the unwelcome sight. With a twirl of my cloak I climbed up through the trap door just above the mirror and worked my way into the ceiling above the room. A vent was fortunately situated directly above the divan, and I pulled the note addressed to the Vicomte from my cloak and promptly dropped it on his head.

Raoul gasped and broke the kiss, pulling back to retrieve the letter that had fluttered to his feet. Christine suddenly went deathly pale, her breath quickening in her chest.

"It's him," she said, her voice just above a whisper. "He's here."

"This is the same envelope I received last time," Raoul observed, breaking the seal and pulling out the note. He read for a few moments in silence, his brows furrowing deeper with every line.

"What does it say?" Christine breathed, her eyes lightly closed.

"_Monsieur Le Vicomte, _

_You might have won this battle, but the war has just begun. This opera house is mine, as is Miss Daaé. You would be wise to heed my warnings and disappear while you are ahead, for I assure you, I have far more power in this place than you could possibly imagine. Order your fine horses, Vicomte, and leave the Opera Populaire by the premiere of "Don Juan Triumphant," or the resulting disaster will leave you and your managers begging for Hell. This is your final warning, monsieur; I do so loathe redundancy. _

_O.G._"

Raoul sat perfectly still for a moment before he suddenly folded his letter in half and tore it to shreds. Christine's eyes bulged, her face paling even more, but she said nothing.

"I do not fear him," he said, his chin raised defiantly. "Let him try his worst."

Christine shuddered, another tear escaping from her eye. "Please, Raoul…"

"No!" The boy slammed his open palm on her vanity, and Christine flinched, squeezing her eyes shut again. "I will not be intimidated by him! Fear is what feeds him, Christine, don't you see? It's your fear of him that allowed him to take you to the cellars in the first place!"

She shook her head sadly. "You are a fool to try and stop him. He's right… he has a power I don't understand…"

"Well I do!" he insisted stubbornly, yanking the door open. "And I'm going to beat him at his own game, Christine, just you wait and see!" And with that, he stormed out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

I smirked, twirling Christine's note from one finger to the next. Things were going even better than expected! I could hardly wait to hear the Vicomte's brilliant plan to "beat me at my own game." It was laughable, really.

_Christine, Christine,_ I sang eerily, allowing the note to flutter down into her lap. She shuddered, wrapping her hands across her chest to rub her forearms. She breathed heavily as if fighting sobs as she delicately opened the letter and read it silently to herself.

It read:

_Mademoiselle Daaé,_

_You disappoint me. I would have thought your taste in character far superior than that which you have demonstrated today. I can only hope that you will prove yourself worthy of my unfaltering devotion in the upcoming performance of "Don Juan Triumphant." I have awarded you the lead role, though at the moment I have seriously begun to doubt the wisdom of my casting. Prove me wrong, Christine. You will make a stunning Aminta, should you so choose. If your performance in my opera is indeed as satisfactory as I know it should be, we will progress with your nightly vocal lessons. Until that time, you will have to learn to work independently. Consider it another challenging exercise from your tutor. I shall see you on opening night._

_Erik_

I did not wait for her reaction before retreating to the nearest hallway. At the moment, I had larger problems to deal with. Christine was naïve and easily manipulated— once I disposed of the Vicomte, she would be easy to reel in again. My other staff members were an entirely different story; it would take quite a bit more persuading, bribing, and blackmailing to get them to agree to my commands.

With a determined scowl and a whirl of my cloak, I headed directly for the managers' office.

_A/N: Mwahaha, the notes are back! Erik is ophicially pissed, people. –grins evilly- Let the games begin! Countdown to PonR starts NOW! _

_Sandy: You're first this time! Happy? Teehee. Thank you, darling. I needed that kick in the butt. Still not entirely happy with that chapter, but meh, I tried. Love you to pieces, darlin'! Thanks for all the help! -muah-_

_Electricdragon: I love the graveyard scene too, but YEAH, Raoul ALWAYS has to interrupt the good E/C moments. –snorts- Can't he just get his own brainless diva? Maybe he could share Carlotta with Piangi. –winks-_

_Shadow Fox Forever: Yep, getting pretty close to the ending now. –sniffles- I plan on finishing before I go back to school, so I really need to get moving. I'll be updating like crazy between this story and Ev! _

_Marianne Brandon: Oh PLEASE. You are the most amazing beta EVER! I still want a t-shirt. Hehe. Omg, Sandy and I watched for the snowflake, and we found it, but it's not THAT big a deal… lol. Of course, it's always nice to have more opportunities to mock her. Bwahaha!_

_Haizea: Yesss! –punches air- Good, I didn't completely mess it up! Haha. ;) I was nervous about that chapter. YES! Fanfiction has really expanded my ability to write; my English teacher's like "What HAPPENED?" LOL. –shrugs helplessly- I still insist that I suck, but hey, if you all like my stories, I'll keep posting. They're fun to write, even if they are crappy beyond repair. :P_

_Hriviel: I finally looked up what "mon petit choux" means! –giggles- Aww, I love you, Jen! Thank you. You always manage to pinpoint exactly what I'm trying to get across. If only I had half your eloquence. –sighs dejectedly- Ah well. Hope you had/are having fun camping, ma cherie!_

_LilyEvansPotter4456: Ooh, I can't wait either. Point of No Return is swoon-worthy. It just sucks that Erik can't say "Oh, and by the way, I looked drop-dead sexy in my Don Juan pants." But all of us phans know it anyway. ;)_

_Sakume: Heck yes he does! –stamps foot- I tried to make it as much of an Erik-win as possible. –sighs- Stupid Raoul. He cheated! I dunno how exactly, but he CHEATED, I tell you! Cheated! –sulks-_

_Blood Tears Dying Angel: I loved this scene in the movie too. Much as I hate Christine, she was very beautiful in this scene. Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed my little version._

_Venus725: Man, I gotta tell you, I've hated Snape from the very beginning. Always have, always will. Loved Sirius… he reminded me of Erik. Hehe. Lockhart was a Raoul clone though. LOL! Aaanywhoodles. Thank you, as always! Ooh, you must tell me when you post your PotO story; I wanna read!_

_LoveroftheArts: I KNOW! STUPID RAOUL! And then he has to go and beat Erik. Pfftsh. I love the Vicomte dearly at times, but right now I'm with Erik; I think he needs to Punjab his blond Hanson-brothers-clone head! –nods-_

_Joanieponytail: I actually added in the lines from POTO at the very last second, just before posting. I agree; it's nice to know that she's thinking about Erik, not the blasted Vicomte. HAHA! Yeah, you think that dress is low-cut enough for her to visit her father's grave? –shakes head- I tried to address the theory of what he planned to do once he got her inside the mausoleum, because that had always bugged me too. Your reviews still make me smile, Joanie! What would I do without you?_

_Mominator124: Mmhmm, I loved "A Piercing Light of Hope." –sobs- I'm so sad it's over, but the sequel made my day. :) I'm fortunate to have Marianne Brandon as my beta; she catches so many of my stupid mistakes! No, no fluffy E/C ending. Not fluffy anyways. –clamps hand over mouth- I mean… I didn't say anything!_

_Lady G: -giggles and shakes head- Whew, that one might have been even LONGER! –gapes incredulously- I'm honored, really. That review might have taken as long to write as the chapter itself did! Well, I'm 17 too, hon, and honestly Erik isn't much older than Raoul. He's still devastatingly sexy. –nod nod- I'm so very glad you think I write him well. I try. –shrugs- He's immensely amusing, that Erik, especially his mood swings. Oh, and when he's naughty, pulling pranks and the like. –grins- I looove the "Wandering Child" duet. Their voices are amazing together. It's probably my favorite part of the movie, tied with PonR. Yes, I agree, it really must SUCK to have your ass whipped by a fop. –shakes head- Poor Erik. Thanks so much for the long review, Lyss. :D_

_Morleigh: Yes, it absolutely kills me to write Erik as the loser. –sniffles- The poor sweetie. He should have won, hands down! Alas, I had to write it. Aww, I'm flattered! Writing the story from Erik's POV has made ME view the entire thing differently too, so I'm glad to hear it's not just repetitive of the movie. :) _

_Marik Ishtar YPT: OMG yes! I can't picture anyone as the Phantom besides Gerry. –swoons- He's just so perfect for the role. As for the cliffie, LOL! You know what happens, silly! –giggles- But I know what you mean. Sorry bout that!_

_LaPetiteChristine: Welcome back, Hil! Yeah, I'm going to include NOWL, much to the aggravation of my beta, but I'm not quite sure where yet. I suppose it'll just come to me. Glad you liked those two chappies… HAHA to the Parisian water thing! I'm flying back to California on the 24th, I believe. GRR, I'll be ONE DAY late for orientation, AGAIN. –sighs- See you then, hon!_

_Noni-Noelle: AAH! –tackle hug- My 400th review. I stand in shock. Well, actually, I'm sitting, but you get the point. AWW! I made you cry? –doesn't know whether to be depressed or flattered- Yay, I think? Haha. Glad the soundtrack accompaniment worked. Her voice is beautiful, even if I can't STAND her! I didn't get into specifics with the swordplay, otherwise I would have gone straight to you. Well, that and the fact that we keep missing one another on AIM. GRR! _

_Ever Rin: Yeaaah, isn't the Foppermeister annoying? –sighs- Well, he's gonna get payback during PonR. Oh, the delicious taste of revenge! –blinks- Are you SERIOUS? One of my best chappies yet? –in shock- I don't know what to say. Wow! I thought it was just "bleh." Aww, now I feel special! –grins- Thank you!_

_SubtleFighter: -sighs- Yes, Raoul is the KING of interrupting otherwise touching, fluffy E/C moments. I see your point too when it comes to NOWL… if one hadn't read Kay, it would seem OOC. –shrugs- I'll give an explanation in the Author's Notes. As for the additional details not seen in the film, that's exactly the point. Rewriting the movie is exactly what I'm trying to avoid. The entire story is different from Erik's POV, and I'm thrilled you're enjoying my little tale. :)_

_XxCuTe.LiL.pEnGuUiN.gUrLXx: You know, that's a really long alias to type out! LOL. Oh, no problem! I'm glad you're reviewing now. Haha, you're sweet. Yeah, they DO make a cute couple… hence, I wrote my E/C. As for this story, however, it's not going to be a happy ending. –sniffles- _

_Pertie: -gapes, blushes, starts to say something, shakes head, and gapes some more- Wow… what to say to that? I… uh… thank you! You read this ENTIRE thing in one weekend? I'm dumbstruck, as you can see. But "creative genius"? ME? –laughs- No, not even close… but… wow. –giggles- Hehe, I think I done got me a fan! –beams- Thank you so very much! –does new reviewer dance, gives you a cookie and a hug-_

_Cerebralgoddess19: -eyes widen incredulously- OMG! ANOTHER new reviewer? This late in the story? –does new reviewer dance- I'm in shock here! Tha-thank you… I… wow. Yeah, I understand… a lot of people want this to be an E/C. I might have something up my sleeve, but it WILL follow canon. That's all I'll say for now! –zips lips-_

_Luisa: -faints- I'm being flooded with new reviewers! –revives and does the new reviewer dance again- Welcome, and thank you so much! The scenes out of canon are my favorite, especially chapter 23. Teehee. –grins- So very glad you're enjoying it!_

_Gerryroxmysox: -hugs- Welcome back, hon! Aww, well it sounds like you had fun at camp! Good for you! As for your questions, I'll be happy to answer. "Fop" means someone who's obsessed with their appearance. When referring to Raoul, the nickname comes from Erik's line: "Insolent boy, this slave of fashion!" Well, and the fact that his hair flips at the ends. LOL. Two, yes, I am including NOWL. Three, I'm updating NOW! Hehe. Four, e-mail me and I can send you a copy of Kay's "Phantom." And I've heard the additional lyrics; they get stuck in my head ALL THE TIME! LOL._


	35. I Remain, Gentlemen

_A/N: Hi peoples! Sorry about the delay in updating— this chapter just didn't want to be written. I'm still rather unhappy with it, but I want to get to PonR, so I suppose it will have to do. _

_Disclaimer: AUUUUGGGGHH! _

Andre was already beside himself by the time I climbed into the ventilation shaft above his office. Firmin sat in a broad leather armchair behind his partner's desk, massaging his temples and watching with half an eye as Andre paced restlessly around the cluttered, cramped space.

"Gilles, please, will you sit _down_?"

"No, I will not sit down, nor will I settle down, nor will I cease pacing! Why in God's name are you so bloody _calm_?"

Firmin tilted his head back with a roll of his dark eyes. "It's called self control, old friend. Pacing isn't going to alleviate our problem here."

"Neither is sitting there yelling at me!"

I pressed a fist to my mouth to smother a laugh. Ah, the delicious taste of chaos! Of course, they were merely making things hard on themselves by trying to find the loopholes in my demands. Had they simply obeyed my simple instructions, they would have been rich, prosperous men by the end of the month.

"What do you propose we do instead?" Firmin snapped, resting his chin in his hand.

"If I knew, we wouldn't be having this conversation!" Andre cried hysterically.

"Let me help you out, boys," I whispered, dropping their letters through the vent. Both managers looked down at the envelopes with matching stares of disbelief. Andre was the first to tear his gaze away, his beady blue eyes darting feverishly around the room.

"Where did those come from?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.

Firmin rose slowly to his feet, shaking his head, his mouth slightly agape. He stepped cautiously toward the envelopes as if they would sprout fangs and devour his feet if he moved too quickly.

"Should we… should we open them?" Andre asked, having gone deathly pale.

I alternated between being entertained by, and impatient with, their little antics. Finally Firmin nudged one of the notes with his toe, flipping it over to reveal the intended recipient.

"It's addressed to you," he said gratuitously, a hint of relief permeating his otherwise businesslike tone.

"Wh-what about the other one?" Andre stuttered, pointing a trembling finger at the remaining envelope. Firmin glowered as he flipped the other note over to reveal his own name, as if he had not expected his partner to make such an intelligent notation. With a sigh, he bent to pick them up, and handed Andre his letter.

"We'll open them together," Firmin decided. His partner nodded vehemently, licking his chapped lips. "On the count of three. One… two…three!"

Both men flinched as they broke the red skeletal seals, as if expecting the lights to flicker, a crack of thunder to sound, or some other ridiculous catastrophic event to miraculously occur. I grinned, tucking the ideas away for another time. The effects would probably be better suited to the overly suspicious Carlotta and Piangi anyway.

The managers read silently for a few moments, their eyes alternately narrowing and widening as they received their new set of threats and instructions.

"What does yours say?" Firmin demanded upon finishing his.

Andre managed to close his gaping mouth, swallow, and squeak out the contents of his letter.

"_Monsieur Andre, _

_I grow weary of being denied your assistance. This will be your last kindly reminder before I inflict more damage upon the things (and persons) you hold dear in life. The entire ordeal with Sorelli and Madame Andre was quite regrettable; I do hope another such instance will not be required in the immediate future. If you choose wisely to end this pointless sequence of unfortunate events, you need only to follow these simple instructions:_

_Rehearsals are to begin on the first of March for the production of "Don Juan Triumphant." I will allow Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer to make all casting decisions except the following: Christine Daaé will play Aminta; Signor Piangi will play Don Juan; Carlotta will be assigned a MINOR ROLE of their choosing; and Marguerite Giry is to be the prima ballerina. NO exceptions. I shall give you further direction as to the livery and set construction at a later date. _

_Looking forward to our impending business arrangement. _

_Yours respectfully,_

_O.G."_

"Preposterous!" Firmin grumbled, nervously wringing the letter in his hands.

"And yours?" Andre croaked, a vein in his forehead beginning to bulge.

"_Monsieur Firmin,_

_I suppose it would be a pointless gesture to demand my salary for the third time. Perhaps I shall just tap into the Opera Populaire's bank account and retrieve my due earnings, as it appears to be such an overwhelming chore. _

_By now I'm sure you've spoken with M. Andre concerning the production of "Don Juan Triumphant," but I shall risk being redundant for the sake of making my point unmistakably clear. You will follow my instructions down to every last word, or I shall inflict unimaginable chaos and destruction upon this opera house. Do not take me for a fool; I know I have been denied your cooperation several times in the past without repercussion, but I will be ignored no longer. As all other managers before you, you will yield to my commands. _

_And now, to business. As I have informed M. Andre, rehearsals are to begin on the first of March and proceed through the premiere on the first of April. Consult your partner for casting directions, and advise your staff not to interfere. This includes, but is certainly not limited to, the Vicomte de Chagny. I will send more instructions concerning the production of my opera within the week._

_Sincerely yours,_

_O.G._"

Andre's left eye began to twitch almost imperceptibly as his partner finished the letter. Silent heaves of laughter had me bracing one hand against the wall for support and clamping the other tightly over my nose and mouth. I had forgotten, in my consuming anguish over Christine, how utterly satisfying supremacy was to the thirsty soul.

"What-what are we going to do?" Andre asked, his voice wavering in pitch like that of an adolescent boy. His partner opened his mouth to answer, but before a single sound could escape the door swung open with a resounding bang. Both managers whirled around in terror, as if expecting the Red Death to appear again.

The Vicomte stood in the doorframe, panting slightly. A determined scowl was painted across his face, and he glared at the two men as if they had committed mortal sins against him.

"Monsieur le—" Firmin began, his horror dissolving into mild surprise.

"We need to talk," Raoul interrupted hastily, gesturing to the hall behind him. "Walk with me." The managers exchanged fleeting glances before hopping to their feet and trailing obediently after their young patron. I followed with a small smirk, immensely entertained by the fact that I had caused him such flagrant anxiety.

"Is everything quite alright, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

"We do hope nothing's wrong—"

"Something is very wrong," Raoul snapped, his stride long and clipped as he made his way toward the auditorium. "We have a serious problem, gentlemen, and it's high time we held a staff conference."

"Staff conference?"

"Problem?"

"Well, _this_ should be interesting," I murmured.

The Vicomte burst through the main auditorium's entrance, swinging the doors wide open so they came clattering shut in the faces of the frazzled managers. My ribs began to burn from restraining hysterical laughter, tears of mirth clouding my vision as I made my way to the rafters.

The musicians in the orchestra pit stopped one by one to turn and gawk at their superiors, much to the exasperation of Reyer. The ballerinas, in turn, ceased dancing even as Madame Giry rapped her cane indignantly on the stage. At last the entire rehearsal came to a screeching halt, and within moments the auditorium was abuzz with murmured gossip.

The performers parted for the Vicomte as he strode up the steps and directly across the stage, while the managers sputtered their apologies and scurried huffily after him. Giry and Reyer exchanged brief glances before transferring charge to veteran ballerinas and musicians and hurrying in direct pursuit of their patron. Unsurprisingly, Carlotta and Piangi, too, abandoned their fellow actors and joined the train, undoubtedly wanting to be in the center of the chaos. I eyed the stage disinterestedly, knowing Christine was not among the chorus girls, and wound deftly through the catwalks just above Raoul's head.

"Monsieur de Chagny, please!" Firmin panted, trying to keep up with the boy's rapid pace. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Bear with me, everyone," he interrupted, staring straight ahead. "I think I might have found the solution to our problems with _Monsieur le Fantôme_."

"Pray tell!" Andre puffed, gaping incredulously at the determined patron.

"Yes, Monsieur," I echoed under my breath, my lips curling in an expression somewhere between a sneer and a smirk. "Pray tell."

The boy walked in silence for a moment more before his voice cut sharply through the air, each syllable over-annunciated with barely-contained rage.

_We have all been blind, _

_And yet the answer is staring us in the face!_

_This could be the chance_

_To ensnare our clever friend… _

I raised an eyebrow, giving a snort of derisive laughter. _Oh, this should be good,_ I mused.

"We're listening!" Andre interjected seriously.

"Go on!" Firmin urged.

_We shall play his game,_

_Perform his work, but remember we hold the ace!_

_For if Miss Daaé sings_

_He is certain to attend. _

My eyes widened incredulously. I had always been unimpressed with the boy's level of intelligence, but this— this was not even _laughable_, it was so pathetic! He was going to play along, and bow to my every whim? He might as well have rolled belly-up and waved a white flag. I had expected to have to bribe, cajole, and blackmail the living daylights out of every last staff member to get my way, and here my nemesis was suggesting surrender before the fight even began? I couldn't believe my ears.

_We are certain the doors are barred! _Andre cried with a firm nod.

_We are certain the police are there! _Firmin added.

_We are certain they're armed! _The Vicomte agreed, his chest swelling importantly.

"You're kidding," I begged, rolling my eyes upwards in desperation to the God I didn't believe in. "_Tell_ me they're kidding!" This was obscene. This was _wrong_. My opponents had the brain capacities of two-year-olds (but then, that was an insult to two-year-olds)! It was an insult to my wits to take on such unworthy adversaries. Their brilliant, outstanding, invincible plan was to station underpaid, overworked gendarmes in the secret passages they didn't know _existed?_ Even if I _had_ used the main entrances and halls of the opera house as these imbeciles presumed, I could have stepped within two meters of an armed police officer, in plain view, and ducked into a shadowed hiding place before he could cock his gun. I shook my head in stunned silence at their sickening display of idiocy.

_Christine left me for HIM? _I quickly shook the thought away, as it caused bile to rise up in my throat. I loved the child more than life itself, but she continually proved her tastes to be far below mediocre.

_Not for long,_ I insisted. If the Vicomte and managers were so unbelievably stupid as to conceive such a dysfunctional plan, well… so be it. They were only making my job easier, tipping their hats to me as they paved the way directly to Christine.

The three men strode side by side, their voices strong and ostentatious as they sung out:

_The curtain falls— his reign will end!_

I supposed it would be pointless to inform them that by the time the curtain closed, Christine would have devoted her heart to me and escaped through the hidden trapdoor in the center of the stage. It probably would have only served to clutter their confused minds further, so I decided against it.

Madame Giry, on the other hand, still seemed to believe that there was a shred of reason left in their minds. She threw her hands up in the air and made a scoffing noise in the back of her throat. "Monsieur de Chagny, I must protest—"

"Hold your tongue, Madame," Firmin interrupted, fixing her with a cold glare. "We already know you have devotedly served the 'Opera Ghost' for the past fifteen years. Consider yourself lucky that we continue to employ you."

"Indeed," Andre snorted. "Either stay and remain silent, or go back to your rehearsals."

Madame Giry's mouth fell slightly open, her brows knitting indignantly. The Punjab lasso was in my hand in a flash; how dare they take such a tone with a woman of her seniority— let alone for assisting me! I refrained from snapping their necks by concentrating as hard as I could on Christine. If I killed them now, the production of _Don Juan Triumphant_ would never follow through to another set of managers. Much as it pained me to do so, I would have to tolerate their mindless antics for the next five weeks.

Just five weeks. _Five… endless… weeks._ I groaned, scrubbing my eyes as if it would assuage the throbbing beneath them. Rehearsals would be an unbearable headache— I could sense that already. I made a mental note to destroy any bottles of alcohol I might have stashed in my lair; the temptation would soon be too great to resist, I predicted morbidly.

Unable to stand the sight of the traitorous idiots any longer, I flipped the edge of my cloak and climbed a series of wooden beams to the trapdoor near the ceiling of the backstage area. Now seemed as good a time as any to deliver the remainder of my letters, as each of the recipients was occupied with hearing the details of the Vicomte's _ingenious_ plan.

I spent the next twenty minutes traversing the opera's complex web of secret hallways, dropping Madame Giry's letter in her office, and Piangi's and Carlotta's in their respective dressing rooms. They read:

_Giry,_

_I expected more from you. Surely you have better taste than to join this mad circus. I am not yet angered— merely disappointed. You KNOW who runs this opera house, and it is certainly not those impudent fools Andre and Firmin. I pray your unfaltering common sense will prevail in the upcoming months._

_That said, I will need your cooperation when rehearsals begin on the first of March. I have secured the role of prima ballerina for your talented daughter— she has certainly earned it, and with Sorelli out of the picture, there should now be no one to stand in the path of her success. Don't test me, Giry, if not for your sake, then for your daughter's. I do not wish to threaten you, but current circumstances leave me no other option. I fear your devotion is wavering. Prove me wrong, and no more of these letters will be necessary. _

_Erik_

_Signor Piangi, _

_Fondest salutations, good monsieur. I pray this letter finds you in good health, for you will certainly need your strength to tackle the upcoming role of Don Juan. Should you follow my careful instructions over the next month, I'm sure you will find that this role will propel you to fame and prosperity beyond your wildest dreams. Your name will go down in history after this opera, Signor Piangi, I promise you that much._

_My primary concern involves Christine Daaé. I am fully well aware that the contents of this impending opera are of a sensitive and seemingly crude nature, and therefore you must take extra care to perform tastefully. I must stress that this means you should avoid intimate and inappropriate gestures, caresses, and dare I say "relations" with Miss Daaé, both onstage and off. I recognize that you are an actor and it is in your nature to try to stay "in character," but for your own benefit, stay away from Christine, or I shall simply have to find another Don Juan. _

_I hope I do not appear overly menacing— if so, I heartily apologize. I look forward to overseeing the impending production. Until then, Signor, I remain,_

_Reverently yours,_

_O.G. _

_Signora Giudicelli,_

_Please do not take your demotion in my upcoming opera as an insult— rather, a learning experience. All great stars must share the limelight from time to time, and you, Signora, have dominated the stage for five seasons. Perhaps it is time to switch to another opera house? Rumor has it the London Opera is in desperate need of a new diva. Just a thought. If you are not interested in relocating at the moment, I would highly suggest that you impress me in this imminent production. After all, there are no small parts, only small actors… and you, Signora, hardly fit that description. _

_O.G._

With the last letter delivered, I nodded once with a satisfied smile and hurried off toward home. Only six days until rehearsals started, and I had so much left to do! There were costumes to design, blueprints to copy, stage directions to write, props to order, and a thousand other chores I would not trust any ordinary craftsman, let alone one of the managers, to oversee. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was my last chance to reclaim Christine; everything needed to be absolutely perfect.

_A/N: I love you all to pieces, but I've recently been informed that stories are being taken down if authors post review responses. NO idea why, but I don't want to chance losing all this work. –apologetic look- I'll try to get the next chapter posted much more quickly as an I'm-sorry gift, okay? –cookies and brownies for everyone- _


	36. Twisted Every Way

_A/N: -blows kisses to my loyal reviewers- I can't express to you how appreciative I am of your continued support for this story. Balancing school, my social life, SAT IIs, college applications, and my fanfics is no small feat. Thanks so much for your patience._

_Just a note: I am altering the timeline just a wee bit. In the film, this scene takes place on the night of "Don Juan Triumphant," but I've always thought that didn't make much sense. So we're pushing it back a little ways, and leaving room for "No One Would Listen." K? _

To my mild surprise, everything went according to plan. The assigned date of the first rehearsal loomed forebodingly over the heads of the _Populaire_'s staff— I would not let them forget it. By the evening of February 28th, every last inhabitant of my opera house had received at least one letter of instruction. At my command, Giry and Reyer had obligingly organized auditions and cast the remaining performers. The costume and prop department worked frantically throughout the day— the production was tremendous, my directions for its construction excruciatingly detailed and tedious. Fortunately, superstition terrified many of the people into obedience, and by the time the first of March arrived, everything was ready for a month of full dress rehearsals.

Despite the almost inhuman quintessence of the first week, I was beside myself with anxiety. It seemed everyone was prepared to begin except me…and Christine.

After Giry's official announcement that Christine was to play Aminta, she had fled to the little chapel, and had hardly left the room since. She spent her days kneeling before a lone candle, whispering pleas to her beloved father, and every saint she could name. When she was forced to emerge briefly for meals and to sleep, she spoke to no one, not even Raoul, and kept her eyes trained on the floor. I was drawn to her like a moth to flame; even when I should have been overseeing the preparations for the show, I crept off into the ceiling above her head, listening with moist eyes to her broken voice.

The night before the first rehearsal, I decided to sing to her in an attempt to remind her that her Angel still watched over her diligently. An exotic, wordless lullaby poured from my lips. Instead of calming Christine, it sent her into a hysterical fit of sobs. She doubled over, clutching the crucifix around her neck, shaking her head as she mouthed "please" repeatedly.

I nearly called off the opera entirely after that. Her pitiful sobs ripped at my soul, and my resolve quickly began to unravel. The last thing I wanted was to cause Christine pain, and it appeared I was doing just that. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps they were _all_ right. Perhaps I _was_ just a cold, heartless monster. Perhaps nothing, not even my life's work, could convince her to love me.

With a heavy heart and cold, empty eyes, I began to climb down from the ceiling and make my way to the manager's office to call off the production. The battle was decidedly over— I was ready to surrender. Christine did not want me. For her sake, and at the expense of my soul, I would let her go. I could not cage her spirit like this. She deserved the best the world had to offer.

But just as I opened the hatch that exited into a hidden hallway, the familiar weight and rhythm of the Vicomte's footsteps halted me in my tracks. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristled instinctively, and I wheeled around and returned to the ceiling of the chapel to listen.

Peering down through a moldy crack in the stone, I watched with a mixture of pity, guilt, and irrepressible jealousy as Christine turned her wide brown eyes to the boy.

"Raoul, I'm frightened," she whispered. She twisted her torso to face him, trembling from head to toe. "Don't make me do this." The Vicomte took a step forward as Christine climbed shakily to her feet. "Raoul… it scares me." She collapsed into his arms, and a possessive shudder ran the length of my spine, sending goose bumps along my limbs. "Don't put me through this ordeal by fire. He'll take me… I know. We'll be parted forever. He won't let me go."

Cold rage unfurled its skeletal fingers, enveloping and hardening my heart. How _dare _she! Just moments ago, I had been willing to damn myself to a life of solitude for her sake, yet here she was, sniveling into the shoulder of her precious Vicomte, spewing harsh accusations against me— the one person in the world who had coddled and protected her in her time of need, nurtured her voice, propelled her to stardom, _killed_ for her happiness! After all I'd done for her, the hours of agonizing labor and heartache, this was the thanks I received? _Accusations…_ and false accusations at that? She was missing the point entirely! _Don Juan Triumphant_ was my profession of love for her… the only crime I could be accused of was inducement, for it was meant to sway her and convince her that she loved me too, deep in the recesses of her heart. The point was for her to choose me of her own accord… to _win_ her heart, not steal it.

_You were supposed to understand, Christine_, I told her silently, a well of grief and rage burning its way up from my stomach until it gathered in a knot in the back of my throat. _You were supposed to be different. _

Clenching my fists until the nails dug into the flesh of my palms, I watched silently with cold, calculating eyes as Christine stepped from the Vicomte's embrace and slowly crossed the room.

"What I once used to dream… I now dread: if he finds me, it won't ever end…" Shaking with sobs, she began to sing miserably.

_And he'll always be there singing songs in my head_

_He'll always be there singing songs in my head…_

I bit down on my tongue until a metallic taste filled my mouth, determined not to shed another tear for her. A torrent of emotion roared just below my calm exterior, threatening to burst my searing veins. Every muscle in my body screamed to do something… _anything_. There was absolutely nothing worse than being powerless.

As if things weren't bad enough already, the Vicomte chose that particular moment to deal another, even more agonizing blow.

_You said yourself he was nothing but a man…_

A shudder gripped my body violently, and I squeezed my fists until rivulets of warm blood trickled down my palms. It was unbearable…

We had spent a decade together, teaching one another, molding one another, and growing in mutual love and friendship. And all it took to erase those beautiful ten years with her Angel of Music was a pompous boy? He was twisting her words, morphing her ideals, shattering everything she had ever known and loved! It was his fault that she perceived me as just another mundane, normal human being. I loathed human beings— their treacherous ways, selfishness, brutality. No one, not a single human being, man or woman, had ever shown kindness to me, save Christine… and I was beginning to wonder if perhaps she had only done so in reverence of my supposed divinity. Stripped of my title of Angel of Music, grounded by reality, what was I to her? "Nothing but a man." And as a man, I was nothing but deformed flesh. Only through music— Christine's music— did my soul take wing.

I felt detached… heavy, yet oddly fragile, as I watched my loathed enemy sit down beside Christine and cup her porcelain cheek. It was if my mind and body were separate beings, and for the life of me I could not unite them.

… _Yet while he lives, he will haunt us 'til we're dead._

A bitter expression somewhere between a sneer and a smirk pulled at my lips. _Now _that_, dear Vicomte, _I mused, _I will promise you._ Killing him would be too easy… even the slowest, most excruciating death would not be a suitable punishment for his mortal sin. Corrupting an angel— _my_ angel— would earn him eternal suffering. I would plague him from this moment on, snuffing out every last joy in his life. And when he died, an old, broken man, I would follow him into the depths of Hell and make him pay tenfold for every treacherous word, note, glance, and kiss that had come from my beloved Christine.

Snapped from my morbid thoughts by the sound of my muse's wavering voice, I was vaguely aware of stinging wetness trapped between the mangled skin of my right cheek and the porcelain mask. I tasted salt, sweat, and blood… and somehow the physical sensations soothed me. I was alive, despite the doubts of my soul. The boy had not won yet.

_Twisted every way, what answer can I give?_

_Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live?_

_Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice?_

_Do I become his prey? Do I have any choice?_

Indecision… I could not decide whether it was Christine's greatest asset or her tragic flaw. She had been desperate enough to place her faith in a disembodied voice, in the hope that her father had fulfilled his dying promise. I had been her everything, as she had been mine. This boy, this Raoul, was unraveling her cocoon, ripping her from the only world she had known for the past ten years. She was blinded and confused by the strange new light, and I wanted nothing more than to take her back down into the dark oblivion of my lair and drown her soul in music. She was safe with me, protected… loved. Raoul would never understand her as I did.

With that single thought, my mind was made up. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was our last chance. Onstage, there was no possible way for the Vicomte to interrupt our passionate duet as he had done countless times in the past. My opera would sever the ties of her puppeteer… her decision would be her own, and I would accept it. But now… now the words spilling forth from her mouth were all a manipulation; I couldn't be sure what was truly going on beneath her pained eyes. Music was the language of our souls, and depending on her performance, I would know exactly what secrets were locked in the depths of her heart.

_He kills without a thought— he murders all that's good_

_I know I can't refuse! And yet, I wish I could…_

_Oh God, if I agree, what horrors wait for me_

_In this, the Phantom's opera?_

Despite my understanding that a reiteration of _Raoul_'s indictments were spilling from her perfect lips, not her own, I couldn't help but mentally argue my point. I had never killed without purpose, and to presume so was severely insulting; nor had I ever murdered an innocent soul… Lord knew Javert was deserving of his fate, as was the pedophilic, beastly whoreson Buquet. I did not regret either kill.

Raoul gave Christine's hand a squeeze, and a muscle in my shoulder twitched.

_Christine, Christine, don't think that I don't care—_

_But every hope, and every prayer rests on you now!_

I seethed, resisting the urge to climb down and crush every last one of his joints. _"Don't think that I don't care, but here! Let's sacrifice you, because I'm far too important!"_ The urge to kill had never invaded my senses with such raw force. He was not good enough to lick the ground Christine walked on, yet he dared to make such a bold claim, and then warmly embrace her! It was too much. I needed to leave before I did something I would regret. My self-control was draining away faster than my mind could catch up.

Physically shaking with unbridled rage, I stormed from the room so quickly that my cloak whipped out behind me. I did not stop until I was seated on my organ bench, my blood-caked fingers pounding away on the smooth keys. But somehow, even music could not ease the oozing pain in my gut. Grief and uncertainty and anger warred within me in a battle so furious that my fingers couldn't keep up. Slamming my fists down on the instrument, I pressed a trembling fist to my forehead, and waited.

_Soon… very soon… _

But I had never been a patient man.

_A/N: I loved writing this chapter, I must say. I've missed being in Erik's skin! Hopefully I did him justice. Thank you again SO MUCH to those of you who continue to review! Your feedback is treasured. :D _


	37. No One But Her

_A/N: Okay, we have now arrived at the most controversial chapter of this entire story! There was a lot of debate as to whether or not I should include this song, as it was deleted from the film, but the vast majority of reviewers voted for me to put it in, so here it is. I apologize to those of you who did NOT want to see this chapter in here, but I rather like it. I don't see it as OOC because, arguably, we don't see much of Erik's true character in the film, and what we DO see is quite varied; he's a cold-blooded murderer one moment, a passionate seducer the next, fuming the next, and broken down crying the next. I think, therefore, that this song is entirely plausible for his character, given the proper explanation, mood, and timing, which I hope to portray. _

_That said, a great deal of this chapter is based on Susan Kay's "Phantom." My Erik thus far has been a combination of all the versions, so please understand that this one leans heavily toward Kay. Haven't read it? No worries— it should still make sense. I hope. ;)_

_Disclaimer: As I said, a lot of Kay references. The song DOES NOT BELONG TO ME! Let me make that unmistakably clear. The lyrics, music, etc. of "No One Would Listen" are not mine. They belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber and… Charles Hart, I think? Correct me if I'm wrong, because I'm not sure on the lyricist. But anyways, to summarize: none of it is mine. _

I had arrived at the conclusion that my temper was like a roaring gas fire; when first lit, it flared up with flames so hot and bright that they consumed everything within reach, but in moments the lack of fuel would cause the majestic fire to dwindle and die, exhausted by its brief surge of power. No analogy could have better described the hollow feeling that had settled in my stomach, where moments ago it had churned as if filled with molten lead. It was impossible to remain upset with Christine for very long, because the more I thought about her, the more I tried to make excuses for her. My mind traveled unwittingly to our lessons in that very same chapel and her young, cherubic face… and somehow the memory of my pupil's wide chocolate eyes quenched the fiery rage that pulsed through my core. The Vicomte, on the other hand, was a very different story— I could fume over his intrusion for the rest of my days and the fire would never smolder to seething ashes. I would always hate him for what he'd stolen from me, but I could not blame him for loving her; however, thoughts of Raoul worked in a circle, bringing me back to Christine, and the mere thought of her would turn menacing thoughts to melancholy ones.

The music, too, eventually died away beneath my sore, cramped hands. I studied the keys absently as the last chord faded into silence— they were tinted a faint, diluted red from the blood that had trickled down my fingers. Sighing deeply, I rose to my feet and went to the lake's edge, dipping my hands in the cool water. A sharp pain sliced through my palms as the water seeped into the thin, raw cuts, and I waited for the ache to dull before washing off the dried blood.

I made the mistake of locking eyes with my reflection on the glassy surface. Three decades of pain shone out from the pale green orbs, barefaced and vulnerable with no one to hide it from. Gone was the venomous, horrifying Phantom of the Opera; I stared down at the broken, insecure man behind the mask. For the moment, I was simply Erik.

A haunting melody began to form in my head as I stared down into those eyes. There were no words yet, but they would come.

Memories that I had believed gone and buried surfaced as I studied my reflection. I remembered my mother… delicate and beautiful. She had always reminded me of a lily. I remembered a doctor and a priest, the names of which had been lost to me over time. I remembered Javert and his whip. And a cage. I remembered the little monkey toy I had made from a burlap sack and some straw— my only friend among the jeering faces of the crowd. I remembered the agony at nights, trying in vain to find a position on the cold ground that wouldn't require me to lay on one of my broken ribs. I remembered my names in those seemingly endless years of my late childhood and early adolescence… "The Devil's Child," "The Living Corpse," "Satan's Spawn," "The Face of Death," and the list continued. I remembered the kind young face of Céline Ethelstan, and the warmth of her hand as she led me into the dark, winding Paris streets and into the sanctuary of the opera house. I remembered exploring the underground labyrinth, my excitement mounting with each newfound passage and trap door. I remembered watching my first opera from high up in the rafters. I remembered my brief infatuation with Céline, and the night I broke my hand punching the wall upon hearing of her engagement to Jacques Giry. I remembered delivering little Meg while her father was away on business and the midwife could not come quickly enough.

And I remembered the night I had first heard Christine's plea for her Angel of Music. Something about her agony, her desperation, struck a familiar chord within me.

The pain upon looking back at that evening and comparing it to the scene I'd just witnessed brought me beyond tears— they would have been an insult to the extremity of my soul's torment.

The words came at last, quiet and pensive and terribly sad.

_No one would listen  
No one but her  
Heard as the outcast hears_

I skirted my fingertips along the water's surface, watching as the ripples distorted my reflection. When the lake once again smoothed over I rose to my feet, singing softly to myself as I wandered across the room. Years of pent-up self pity were yearning to break free, and it felt so liberating to finally let them go.

_Shamed into solitude  
Shunned by the multitude  
I learned to listen  
In my dark, my heart heard music_

I longed to teach the world  
Rise up and reach the world  
No one would listen  
I alone could hear the music  


It seemed so odd to be openly admitting what I had denied to myself for the past twenty years. Ever since my early childhood I had understood to some extent that I was a prodigy— talented far beyond my years. I sang before I spoke, both of which came at a premature age. By age two I could speak in fluent sentences, play simple tunes on my mother's piano, feed and clothe myself, and flawlessly echo any song I heard. By three and a half I had taught myself to read bits and pieces of the newspaper; by four and a half I could read every book in the house and play any composition set before me. It irritated me beyond belief that others did not pick up on things as quickly as I did; I wanted everyone to advance to my level of understanding in an instant.

As a young adolescent, left alone to think in my cage at night, I often pondered my future once I managed to escape from the gypsy caravan (for it was not a matter of "if," but "when"). I was sure I could teach myself any trade— it was all a matter of what piqued my interest. I wanted to travel the world and see the spectacles described in my mother's musty, yellowed encyclopedia. I wanted to converse with famous scientists and philosophers, archaeologists and architects. Perhaps they, the most elite thinkers in the world, would be able to see the genius beneath my deformity. More than anything, I wanted to be accepted in the world for more than my face suggested. Unlike the priests proclaimed, I knew my deformity was not a reflection of a twisted soul— rather the flaw that kept me bound to the rest of humanity. There needed to be some part of me that wasn't perfect. Arrogant, yes… but I had forced myself to believe it. It had been the one thought that had kept me breathing. The world could not be right; I was not a monster. And if I was… then what was the point in living?

_  
Then at last, a voice in the gloom  
Seemed to cry, "I hear you!  
I hear your fears,  
Your torment and your tears!"  
_

I studied the portraits mounted on the far wall— perfect replicas of Christine, made with charcoal, paints, lead, and ink. They depicted her doing several tasks that others would have found mundane: daydreaming, reading a book, brushing her hair, practicing her ballet steps. There were pictures of her smiling, others of her looking pensive, still others of her as a child, large brown eyes brimming with tears. Each one captured a single, precious moment in time, making her beauty immortal. I reached out and lifted one of the pictures for closer inspection, brushing my fingertips reverently along each carefully-sketched feature.

_  
She saw my loneliness  
Shared in my emptiness  
No one would listen  
No one but her  
Heard as the outcast hears  
_

A blood red rose, bound with black satin ribbon, sat on my workbench, awaiting delivery in the morning for the first rehearsal. I stepped over to it and brought it to my nose, inhaling the faint, familiar scent. A fresh wave of pain crashed over me as I remembered every trembling word that had just passed through Christine's sweet lips. The thought that she actually meant them… that she no longer loved and adored her Angel of Music, made my knees threaten to give out beneath me. Moving slowly around the bench, I collapsed into the red velvet throne I had taken from one of the vaults years ago. My voice grew faint, hardly more than a whisper, as I pressed the soft rose petals to my lips, staring wistfully at the miniature stage replica of _Don Juan Triumphant_.

_  
No one would listen  
No one but her  
Heard as the outcast hears_

Minutes slipped by as I sat in silence, lost in thought and memory. Finally, with a small nod, I placed the rose on the miniature stage and retired to my bedroom. Tomorrow marked the beginning of a full month of stressful rehearsals— I knew I would be incapable of sleep for quite some time. Deciding to take the opportunity to rest while I still had the chance, I changed into a loose shirt and comfortable trousers. I had not realized how exhausted I was, both mentally and physically, until my head came to rest on the bottom of my coffin. Within moments my eyes grew heavy, and I succumbed to a long, dream-filled sleep.

_A/N: I think I'll stop here. Sorry, I know it's short, but I don't want those people who didn't read this chapter to miss out on any more than is necessary. I'll try to update next weekend… but I'm getting my wisdom teeth removed, so I might be in too much pain to form a coherent sentence, let alone an entire chapter. We'll just have to see._

_I'm so depressed that I no longer get to reply to your fantastic reviews! –sniffles- I love you all so much. :) I've been blessed with the best reviewers ever. You all brighten my day and make me smile. Feedback, as always, is treasured, good or bad. Thanks so much to those of you who continue to bring a smile to my face and urge me to continue with this story. _


	38. A Disaster Waiting To Happen

_A/N: You guys didn't ACTUALLY think I'd skip over all the rehearsals to get immediately to PonR, did you? Hehehe. O:) This chapter is short-ish, but hopefully what it lacks in quantity was made up for in quality. –crosses fingers-_

_Oh, and I absolutely MUST take this opportunity to thank, bow down to, and express my utmost adoration for the lovely **joanieponytail**. She has my eternal gratitude, because being the absolute sweetheart that she is, she bought and sent me a copy of Susan Kay's "Phantom." –insert 'ooohs,' 'aaahs,' etc- She asked absolutely nothing from me in return but to continue with this story… _

_This chapter, and the one before it, are officially dedicated to her. Thank you SO very much… you're my hero!_

_------------------------ _

_Passarino, faithful friend,_

_Once again recite the plan!_

"CUT!" Madame Giry shouted, running her slim fingers through her hair in exasperation. "Meg, what in God's name are you still doing onstage?" She stormed over to her daughter, notorious cane in hand, which she proceeded to tap metrically on the floor. "Pass-a-RI-no, FAI-thful FRIEND… Three pirouettes and you're off. Don't dally." With a sharp sigh, she whirled about to face the maestro, giving a frustrated shake of her head. "Once again, Monsieur Reyer. My apologies, Signor Piangi…"

I massaged my temples with two fingers on each hand, attempting to ease the throbbing beneath the pads of my fingertips to no avail. It was if a drum was situated in the center of my head, and an infinitesimal man was pounding vehemently away on it, merely for the pleasure of tormenting me.

For awhile I had thought it impossible for even the most idiotic, uneducated, artistically deficient bums of society to ruin my life's masterpiece. Evidently I had underestimated the stupidity of mankind.

_Passarino, faithful friend,_

_Once again recite the plan!_

_Your young guest believes I'm you:_

_I the master, you the man! _

"Wait, wait!" Reyer interrupted, lifting his mousy face from the orchestra to point a hesitant finger at the actor who had been _foolishly_ selected to play Don Juan's subordinate, Passarino. I was beginning to wonder if the man could perhaps sing even _one_ note in key; apparently the maestro shared my appraisal. "Signor Rossini, yes, um… let's, let's try that once more, if you don't mind…"

The portly Italian, who might have been Piangi's twin brother had I not known better, threw his pudgy arms in the air, letting out an indignant screech. "'Owwa many times we gonna do zees one little part? What's wrong _zees_ time, Maestro, eh? Ask Piangi! Sound _perfetto_ to you, right, _il mio amico_?"

Piangi puffed out his broad chest, making a sort of high-pitched squawk of concurrence. I sighed, pulling a small off-white card, a bottle of red ink, and a clean quill from my cloak. With as legible of handwriting as I could manage in the dim light, I hastily scrawled a petulant note. Leaving the stationery utensils on the rafter, I rose to my feet and grabbed a nearby rope, sliding silently down it with the dexterity of a spider. Fortunately, Madame Giry stood off to the side in one of the right wings, her cold blue eyes mirroring my frustration. As I was not in the mood to hold a hushed conversation with her at the moment, I simply dropped the letter on her neatly styled head.

She did not so much as blink before rolling her eyes and picking up the pristine card from where it had fallen at her feet. "Oh, honestly, Erik, your flair for the dramatic grows tiresome," she grumbled, holding the letter at an arm's length as she read through narrowed eyes.

_Giry—_

_Kindly remind our Italian friends that we have a schedule to maintain. One more interruption and Carlotta might find herself short a manwhore. Better yet, perhaps another set will come loose and dispose of all three of them at once! Wouldn't **that** be a treat?_

_Intervention would be a wise move on your part. I have no patience for this._

_Erik_

The ghost of a smile flitted across her lips before she tucked a stray wisp of hair into her immaculate bun, folded the letter in half, placed it in her skirt pocket, and rapped her cane sharply on the stage. All eyes turned to her stony face, and she tilted her chin up as if daring anyone in the room to defy her authority. When no one did, she crossed the stage at a leisurely pace and stopped in front of the lead actors, placing one hand on her hip.

"Must I remind you gentlemen that we are working on a rigid schedule?" Her tart eyes turned upon the maestro. "Monsieur Reyer, my girls need a great deal of practice with this routine. Might I request that, unless absolutely necessary, we run through the entire scene before pinpointing problem areas?"

Reyer opened and closed his mouth several times, uttering unintelligible fragments of words and phrases, his hands twitching as if to more adequately convey his response.

"Wonderful!" Giry exclaimed, clapping her hands once. She turned smartly on her heel, immediately launching into brief, blunt instructions for her ballerinas. "Giselle, you looked like an unbalanced goose that last time around. Tighten your first pirouette; bring your arms in closer to your chest. Melisande, your role as a prostitute does _not_ give you permission to flash the crewmen— don't look so surprised, Miss Bonner; I saw it quite clearly, and I don't expect to see it again. Sidonie, you are not a flat-footed duck; point your toes. Meg, hustle your last turn and get off the stage. Is everyone clear?"

A resounding chorus of "_Oui, Madame_," came from the ballerinas before they scattered across the stage, diligently taking up their proper positions. I couldn't help but smile. If ever there was a woman who meant business, it was Céline Giry. Although she frustrated me to no end at times, I could not help but admire her fearless candor and commanding presence. She had been a great influence over the years, and her cooperation was priceless in times like these. As she resumed her spot in the wing and the rehearsals started up once again— thankfully without interruption— I climbed back up to the rafters, scribbled a note that read simply "A thousand thanks, Erik," and dropped it at her feet.

I could have sworn I saw her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

My focus on the ballet mistress was short-lived, however; Christine had just appeared two wings behind Madame Giry, awaiting her cue. In a matter of seconds I had climbed to a perch ten meters above her curly head, melding into the shadows. From my hiding place high in the rafters I studied her every move, quickly evaluating her current mood. She was as nervous as I had ever seen her, although she was trying very hard to cover it, and almost succeeding. Her beautiful face was locked into a neutral expression; she held perfectly still, not jiggling a foot, shifting her weight, wringing her hands, or chewing her lip as she normally did when fretful. The façade was nearly perfect, save her eyes, which darted absently upwards or to Box Five every few moments almost imperceptibly. Christine knew I was watching her… studying her, and she was putting on one hell of a show.

But evidently she had forgotten that I had been studying her for ten years, memorizing every last detail of her flawless form and heavenly voice. I understood her body language better than spoken word. Externally she seemed perfectly at ease, but I knew that inside she was writhing under my gaze, her innards turning to molten lead beneath my burning eyes.

Or perhaps that was me. Upon reconsidering the situation I found that it was I who was nervous to the point of trembling, my gut churning and twisting itself into knots. This, all of this, was for her… I had written the opera specifically to fit her range, her voice, but had never heard the meticulously composed notes pour from between her full pink lips outside of my imagination. For years I had waited for this moment…

I held my breath as the music softened to the gentle tinkling of bells. For a moment, it looked as if Christine would drop her guard and balk; she hesitated, blatant fear flashing across her delicate features. All eyes in the room were on her. It appeared that she was frozen in place, incapable of taking those first fateful steps onto the stage.

Reyer's eyes rolled to the ceiling, but just as he raised his baton to silence the orchestra, Christine seemed to remember herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she stepped forward onto the stage, her head held high.

_No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy_

_No dreams within her heart but dreams of love! _

A ringing silence ensued as tears streamed down my cheeks. Although her voice wavered slightly, from nerves or a powerful surge of emotion, her voice belonged to the angels themselves. My breath escaped me in a shuddering rush as I doubled over, grinning through my tears. I could not have critiqued her even if I wanted to; it was perfect.

"Brava, ma amour," I whispered as the orchestra finally seemed to catch its breath, launching hurriedly into the next few notes. The entire auditorium was on pins and needles, waiting to hear her angelic voice again— anticipation crackled in the air, almost suffocating in its intensity.

I hardly heard the first exchange between Piangi and Rossini. Unable to bear listening to the Italian blob butcher the role of Don Juan, I fixated my attention on Christine and refused to see or hear anything or anyone else. Her acting was mediocre; her heart wasn't in it. There was no fire in her eyes, no passion. I had seen her drunk on desire, malleable to the power of my voice and hands and tongue… and this empty-eyed, fragile young woman onstage looked nothing like the fiery Christine I knew and loved.

_Monsieur le Vicomte is to blame for that, _I mused angrily. He would pay soon enough— I alone held the key to Christine's soul. With a single burning glance I could disarm her senses; with a single caress I could bring her to her knees; with a single kiss… well, that was yet to be seen, but I was nearly positive a kiss would be all it took to claim her heart once and for all.

At last she began to sing again. As always, she was a magnificent soprano, but now, although her voice rang out clear and strong, the magic was lost. No one else seemed to notice; the men gawked openly, the women shot her jealous looks. But I heard the change all the same. Had we been in a lesson, I would have stopped her immediately, commencing a long-winded speech about the importance of singing with _soul_.

_You have brought me to that moment when words run dry_

_To that moment when speech disappears into silence_

_Silence…_

Unfortunately, I could do nothing but look on in disappointment as she sang her lines with as much emotion as a pale, beautiful rock. If Carlotta was the epitome of the over-dramatic, at the moment Christine was her polar opposite. Sighing dejectedly, I scowled and clutched my forehead with one hand. This would not do at _all_.

Piangi's infuriatingly off-key voice only served to hasten my oncoming headache. Had I retrieved a mangy alley cat from the most decadent slums of Paris and lit its tail on fire, its screeches would have been more pleasant to listen to than this "world renowned" opera singer. Hearing his terribly incompetent voice try to perform my masterpiece was going to make me sick in a very short amount of time. At the very least, I would try to position myself so that the contents of my stomach splattered all over his bald head. The thought brought a satisfied smirk to my face, but it dissolved almost instantly as the Italian's voice joined Christine's and they walked steadily toward one another.

My stomach flipped, shooting my heart up into my throat.

_Past the point of no return_

_The final threshold…_

Precisely on cue, their hands found one another's waists. My cheeks and eyes burned as I watched him spin her about and clutch her to his bulbous stomach. Christine, too, blushed furiously, her eyes going wide in fright.

In an instant the Punjab lasso was in my hand. From my spot high above the stage I had been able to see what the other performers and coordinators could not; that sick bastard had one hand pressed tightly to Christine's abdomen, pulling her uncomfortably close. His hands found her breasts and lingered there far longer than was called for. All the while Christine struggled almost unnoticeably in his firm grasp, her expression one of a scared child. His grip on her only tightened as she squirmed.

It took me all of ten seconds to untie the rafter hanging beside me, and another five to scrawl out the words, "Touch her again, and it will be your head." I quickly secured the note to the slab of wood with a piece of rope and dropped it on the floor half a meter behind him. The crash of the fallen rafter brought the entire rehearsal to a screeching halt, and several ballerinas screamed in terror, expecting another corpse. Piangi squealed like one of the girls, releasing Christine instantly and wheeling about to look at the fallen beam. His piggy eyes quickly found and scanned the letter, the color draining from his face. Before anyone else could see it, he snatched it up and tucked it in his breast pocket, streams of sweat trickling down his pudgy face.

"What's going on up there?" Monsieur Reyer demanded of the stage hands, who could do nothing but murmur flabbergasted apologies.

"Maestro!" Piangi cut in briskly, wiping his streaming head with a crumpled handkerchief. "I, eh… I theenk I'ma comin down with something. Fever or… something. I go back to my dressing room now, okay? Okay. Partiamos, Carlotta… ciao, Rossini! Ciao, everybody…"

I watched him with narrow eyes until he was far, far away from my precious student. Christine slumped in relief as he disappeared backstage with the Italian diva in tow, her eyes swimming with tears. Madame Giry evidently saw my pupil's distress, for she quickly called it a day and dismissed her ballerinas for showers and their midday meal. I had never been more grateful to her in my life. The performers filed offstage in relief, and finally Giry and Christine, too, slipped out with the rest of the crowd. I followed along, traversing the vents and hidden passages directly to Christine's dressing room. Fortunately I made it there ahead of her, and had just enough time to place a blood red rose on her vanity and slip through the mirror.

Much as I wanted to stay and see her reaction, my soul was howling with the need to pour my aggravation into music. Aside from the brief moment of soul-soaring perfection within the first two lines of the aria, the first rehearsal had been an utter disaster. I had braced myself for such, but the disappointment hung heavy on my shoulders nonetheless. Sighing deeply, I crept down through the catacombs, repeating a single phrase over and over in my mind:

_Only thirty more rehearsals to go._

_--------------------------------_

_A/N: So what did you think of my spur of the moment excuse for Erik killing Piangi? Lol. I just had to give him more justification than "He felt like it." Anyways, thanks so much for reading and REVIEWING (hint hint, nudge nudge). ;) Love you all! –brownies for everyone- _


	39. The Final Threshold

_A/N: Hello my loves! How have you been these past few weeks? So sorry it took so long to get this up… I was at a point in my other story where I had to plow headfirst through a few chapters. I've been home sick with bronchitis, though, so I was fortunately able to get this finished for you. Thanks so much for being patient with me. You are the best, most faithful readers and reviewers an authoress could ask for. –mwah- _

_I have NO earthly idea where my beta went, but I haven't talked to her in a few days. Needless to say this chapter hasn't been edited by anyone other than myself. –sighs- Therefore please forgive any technical errors on my part… _

_Disclaimer: -headdesk- Ai yi yi, vat a head 'ave I!_

Fortunately, the following weeks' rehearsals did not mirror the calamity of the first. Giry and Reyer collaborated their efforts to keep the orchestra, chorus, and ballerinas in line and in sync; the managers, who only _managed_ to bring disarray and uproar to my opera house, were both absent— Firmin with a head cold, Andre on vacation with his wife and eldest daughter; Carlotta and Piangi were often too busy consorting in an empty prop room to be bothered with showing up for rehearsals; and Rossini, lacking the company of his Italian friends, took to flirting shamelessly with the ballet rats between cues… needless to say he was often in high enough spirits that his superiors no longer had to fight him tooth and nail over every line. Likewise, I found my own temper lightening at the surprising smoothness with which the rehearsals were being conducted. I left Giry several notes telling her as much, along with the occasional box of her favorite imported chocolates.

But Christine was another matter entirely.

I am ashamed to admit that I was too cowardly to approach her after her bold confessions in the chapel. That was not to say that my throat did not twitch with the impulsive urge to correct her lackluster performances, or that gooseflesh and migraines were uncommon ailments in those first agonizing weeks— indeed, those would be brazen lies. Where had my passionate, talented student gone, I wondered daily. Certainly this ghost of a young woman was not she. If there was one thing I had drilled into my beautiful little pupil's mind from her first lesson, it was that soul was far more important in a performance than voice. I was terribly disheartened by her vacant expression and indifferent voice as she drudged through the role of a lifetime. My instincts as her tutor of ten years screamed for intervention, but my unfaltering pride bluntly refused.

Those rehearsals were a constant, nightmarish mood swing; I couldn't quite decide whether they were satisfactory or complete and utter failures when the curtain closed each evening. Every day was an exasperating frenzy of ups and downs, triumphs and disappointments. I was sure by the end of week two that if I was not a madman now, I would be by the night of the premiere. And so I was.

While the first fifteen days of March were of questionable quality, the second half of the month was, without a doubt, Hell on earth. At last it seemed to dawn on Signor Piangi that he had less than sixteen days to learn the entire opera, including staging, choreography, cues, and costume changes, let alone the main role of Don Juan, which consisted of five complete arias. Needless to say, I had my doubts. Hence, in my much-beloved solitude of the fifth cellar, I spent the next few nights re-creating the costume designs I had submitted for Don Juan's "seduction" outfit, worn during "The Point of No Return." Sleep was entirely out of the question— a trifling inconvenience which I satiated only when my weary body began to twitch with the almost lethal dosages of caffeine I consumed daily. Those imbeciles in the opera's kitchens never did learn where those twenty cans of coffee beans disappeared to.

On March 18th, my immune system finally gave out. Downing another shot of whiskey and two or three more cups of coffee, I tried to shrug it off at first and continue working as usual. My reddened eyes leaked like those of a bloodhound, my nose ran like a faucet, my voice was little more than a grated, hoarse whisper, and I had a violent cough which made it nearly impossible to remain hidden in one spot for any extended period of time. After denying my illness for two more days, I developed a raging fever, complete with chills and nausea. Even still, I stubbornly refused to miss a single rehearsal.

Unfortunately, even the Opera Ghost had his breaking point; I met mine on one particularly long afternoon in the third week of rehearsals. My head was searing— Carlotta had spent the past ten minutes squawking like an outraged parrot over the hem of her dress in Act Two. Madame Giry had pointedly ignored the diva's temper tantrum, insisting that her girls continue their practice as planned. I watched through increasingly blurred vision as the ballet rats spun in circles amidst Carlotta's wails, their tutus floating up around them like the petals of strange black flowers…

It was all I could remember before waking up face-first on one of the rafters, my arms and legs dangling limply over either side of the wooden plank. The rehearsals had long since ended, but no one seemed to have taken notice of my presence. At first I was horribly confused, unable to recall why I was here… and then it dawned on me. With a soft groan, I pushed myself upright. My head swam for a minute before settling, though it still throbbed viciously. Cursing under my breath, I managed to pull myself to my feet and proceed slowly and carefully home.

I was asleep before my head hit the bottom of the casket.

Though I was unaware of it at the time, four days slipped by as I lay motionless in that damned coffin. My headache eventually dulled, though my nose still ran and my throat felt like sandpaper. Convinced that I was well enough to return to my supervisory post, I cornered Madame Giry and demanded to know how long I'd been gone. I was positively livid upon hearing of my prolonged absence, and for the rest of the day I drilled every last performer until they were ready to collapse, extending rehearsals well into the early hours of the morning. Letters of instruction fell like rain upon the stage, each containing particularly harsh, blunt accusations. Somehow it made me feel better to inflict my own agony and exhaustion upon those poor dopes. Unfortunately God had cursed me with a conscience that refused to be silenced, and against my better judgment I allowed everyone the next day off to rest and rejuvenate.

Predictably, Christine sulked down to the chapel to pray, refusing Raoul's offer to go to lunch in the Jardin des Tuileries and Meg's proposal for a day of open-air shopping. She had withdrawn into herself, shutting everyone else out. Even Madame Giry could not penetrate Christine's barricade… no one could.

Except, of course, me.

It was simple enough to find a violin in the second vault. Instruments of every type, brand, age, and quality were packaged and stacked in the cellar. But Gustave Daaé had played only the best— an absolute beauty, hand-carved by Antonio Stradivari himself. Demiflee strings, standard Pernambuco bow… truly one of the most remarkable instruments I'd ever laid eyes on. It would have been a miracle had I found anything even slightly resembling it… a Guarnerius would have been an excellent substitute, but no man with any respect for music would have locked such a treasure in a cold stone tomb like this. The best I could find was a smallish, American-made violin— I would have turned my nose up at it had I not noticed the "gut strings" at the last moment. Certainly not demiflee, but the sound would be acceptable. I could only hope the moisture had not ruined them…

Selecting a sturdy Brazilwood bow from another case, I drew it hesitantly across the strings, praying. The instrument was in desperate need of tuning, but by some fortunate twist of fate the strings were unharmed. I spent the next fifteen minutes adjusting the instrument to my exact taste, until it sang like liquid gold beneath my deft fingers. A triumphant gleam crackled in my eyes as I tucked the violin and bow in a spare wooden case and raced to the chapel.

For eight hours I caressed my instrument like a fond lover. The bow became an extension of my body as it danced across the strings, filling the air with music until one could almost taste it, breathe it. The chapel was alive with the Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart, the most beautiful sonatas ever composed, anything to bring the light back to her beautiful eyes. She was gradually lulled into a serene trance by the painstaking replica of her father's music. I did not sing, of course, but Christine's voice accompanied my violin in an angelic whisper so soft it might have been my imagination. Her eyelids began to droop as I played the Moonlight Sonata— her favorite, she had once told me— but panic gripped her as she began to drift off, and she raised her pretty little face to the ceiling, tears glittering like diamonds in her eyes.

"Don't leave me, Papa… please don't leave me again…"

My heart broke; I drew the bow in long, powerful strokes across the strings to ensure her that I would stay. At last she allowed her weary body to rest, curling into a warm ball on the stone floor. True to my unspoken promise, I continued to play for hours as she slumbered peacefully; only when the dinner bell chimed did I cease to caress her sleeping ears with sweet music. Once I was sure that she would not wake, I climbed down from the ceiling and gently wrapped her in my own cloak. For a moment I simply stood there, debating what to do… I could not simply leave her here, alone in this cold, dark chapel, but I feared trying to move her for fear that she would wake and scream at the sight of me.

At last I decided to take the risk— I would be so gentle that even if she were awake, she could hardly feel me lifting her. Kneeling beside her, I slowly shifted her weight diagonally so that her head rested against my chest and her knees were curled around my hip. She did not so much as flicker an eyelash as I gathered her in my arms, cradling her legs and neck. I frowned; it was too easy to lift her— she had lost weight. My concerns were quickly drowned out by a stronger emotion, however, as she nestled instinctively into my chest, whimpering in her sleep. The urge to protect her swelled in my breast… my precious angel was tired and cold; she needed a soft bed and extra blankets to keep out the chill.

_And the warmth of another person's body pressed against her, _my mind added before I could silence it. The idea was ridiculous; it was risky enough carrying her back to her room, let alone…

I shook my head, placing a somber kiss on her curls. _She's angry with you, remember? If she wanted anyone's body next to hers, it would be the bloody Vicomte's._ The thought put me in a foul mood. It was extremely fortunate that I didn't meet anyone in the halls— everyone was either resting in their quarters or eating in the dining hall— for I wouldn't have hesitated to kill them on the spot before their screams could wake Christine.

Her bedroom door was slightly open, as if Meg had not bothered to shut it all the way before trotting off to a well-deserved meal. The lights were off, but it made no difference; I had her room's layout memorized, even if my eyes hadn't adjusted almost immediately to the dark. I picked my way steadily around the clutter— compliments of Mademoiselle Giry— and slowly sat on the edge of the bed so that I merely had to twist at the hips to lay Christine down. The mattress let out a whisper of air as it contoured to her body, but still she did not wake. I pulled the coarse sheet and coverlet up to her chin and slowly bent to press a kiss to her forehead, knowing that perhaps it would be the last time my lips would know such sweetness.

This time she did stir. I pulled away quickly, prepared to duck into shadows and disappear before she could discover the identity of her secret protector…

But the single whispered word that escaped her lips stopped my heart in my chest and rendered me paralyzed.

"Angel?"

Her eyes were still closed, her body relaxed. Perhaps she _was_ still asleep; perhaps she was dreaming. But I could not get her tone out of my head… so reverent and longing… almost… almost…

I dropped to my knees, watching her face intently. When she made no indication of speaking further, I reached up and tentatively began to stroke her hair. She sighed softly at my gentle touch and nestled deeper into her pillow.

"That's right, _ange_, go back to sleep," I murmured. Her lips were parted, drawing in steady, shallow breaths. I studied them longingly, and absently found myself leaning in, desperate for just one taste…

I caught myself at the last moment and pulled brusquely away; I was not yet so desperate to kiss her that I would claim her lips in sleep. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was just over a week away. Patience was not one of my strong points, by any stretch of the imagination, but I had waited ten years for this— certainly I could wait ten days?

Sighing deeply, I disentangled my fingers from Christine's hair and reluctantly moved away from her sleeping form. I watched her over my shoulder as I crept across the room, pausing at the door.

"Sweet dreams, _mon amour_," I whispered before shutting the door behind me. While the rest of my opera house would be taking a well-deserved rest tomorrow, I had wasted four precious days sleeping off a damned cold, and hence could not afford such luxuries. Ten days left, and I had a hundred's work left to do. The last-minute alterations to the score alone would take me all night. I berated myself for having wasted so many hours of the day already, and then mentally slapped myself for having called any time devoted to Christine a "waste."

My headache was getting progressively worse by the minute. Eventually I decided to simply stop thinking, as this damned opera seemed to have made me into a walking paradox.

Only after I began to swoon over the organ again, tottering dangerously on the edge of consciousness, did it occur to me to make up some kind of remedy. The time lost on brewing a gypsy potion would no doubt be made up for tenfold in the long run. Swaggering over to my potions cabinet, I glanced wearily up and down the rows, occasionally plucking a vial or two from their respective shelves. At one point I had alphabetized them, but they had long since been misplaced and cluttered so that I had to go through the tedious job of finding the right ones.

Thyme, coltsfoot, lobelia, elecampane, bone set, wild cherry bark, slippery elm, yarrow, Irish moss, balm of Gilead, and peppermint… I looked over the gathered ingredients, trying to remember if I'd forgotten anything.

"Mullein," I murmured, reaching up to rummage in the closet for its respective vial. The brief statement caused my lungs to constrict painfully, and I lurched into a long, violent coughing fit. By the time it had loosened its grip on my body, tears had gathered in the corners of my eyes and there was a foul taste in my mouth. Irritated, I swiped a hand across my brow and spat in the lake before storming over to the stove. I quickly lit a fire and grabbed the tea kettle, filling it halfway and returning to my cupboard. It had been decades since I had prepared this particular syrup, but the recipe leapt to the forefront of my mind on command, and I proceeded to add the correct measurements of each ingredient to the water. When each element had been deposited in the kettle, I hung it over the fire and went back to work for the next twenty minutes.

Act Three was driving me mad— two of Aminta's lines did not agree with Christine's voice, but each change to my already-perfect score was like a knife through my heart. To disrupt the established flow of notes was suicide to the aria, but then so was over-reaching Christine's range; she could strain her voice, which would be an unprecedented tragedy. At last I decided that I should simply rewrite the entire aria, for I could not stand to settle for either devastating option.

Twelve measures later, the kettle began to whistle. I ignored it at first, absorbed in my work, but the whistle slowly escalated into a piercing shriek. My temper reared its ugly head; I slammed my fist down on the organ keys and stormed over to the kettle, snatching it off the fire with such force that I nearly splattered the scalding contents all over my front. Panting and wide-eyed at the close call, I moved much more slowly to the kitchen area and poured the tonic slowly and carefully into a mug. The thick, brownish mixture oozed, bubbled, and hissed as it cooled, and I stared down at it with disgust. I blew on the surface a few times before taking a tiny, hesitant sip.

I nearly gagged. The peppermint hardly tainted the stuff; it tasted of muddy grass clippings and horseshit… or so I presumed, as I had never tasted either. It seemed an appropriate analogy, though.

_But it works, _the reasonable side of my mind insisted. _Just down it so you can get back to work. The sooner you finish this, the sooner you can see Christine again._

Screwing my eyes shut, I lifted the horrid sludge to my lips and gulped it down as fast as humanly possible. When I clanked the mug down on the table, gasping for breath, the urge to retch nearly overpowered me, but I fought it down with several hard swallows. Once I was sure I could move without depositing the contents of my stomach all over the floor, I strode stubbornly back to my organ bench and continued to work as if nothing was amiss.

Strange how one does not immediately notice change when one is absorbed in his work. My cough halted completely, my nose ceased to drip, and the foul coating of the tonic in my throat seemed to ebb the pain there as well. By the time I had finished half the aria, I felt better than I had in weeks, but I didn't recognize the change until it was complete.

Had I been a religious man, I would have thanked God. Instead, I praised the gypsies for their vast knowledge of the workings of the human body, and went about the rest of my work with renewed spirits.

Sometime in those next few days, Christine began to creep tentatively out of her shell. Monsieur le Vicomte was on a business trip in Berlin, which I presumed to have a great effect on the sensuality of her performance. She let go; she allowed the passion of the music to sweep her away. Each performance was more satisfying than its predecessor— I was starting to run short on roses.

All too soon it was "hell week," but the actual stress level for myself, at least, seemed to die down a bit. Everyone had fallen into the routine, rehearsals were going as smoothly as possible, Piangi had at last learned most of his role, and I only had to put up with Carlotta's voice for about an hour every day. The managers returned to their offices, and surprisingly stayed put. After my initial contentment with the situation, I began to grow suspicious and anxious; things were going just a bit _too_ well. Of course, I knew the arrangements the managers and M. de Chagny had set up for opening night, but the gendarmes were of no concern to me. At last I decided to overlook the odd quintessence of the rehearsals and be satisfied; if the idiots thought that by bringing in the police they would bring my opera to a halt, they were gravely mistaken. I was four steps ahead of them— they thought they were lulling me into a false sense of security with the fluidity of the rehearsals, but my security was altogether warranted. I had nothing to fear from the proud little toy soldiers, let alone in my domain.

So I sat back and enjoyed the performances, my letters of instruction growing fewer and farther apart each time. Reyer and Giry knew my standards and expectations, and almost always made corrections before my quill could finish writing them.

An apprehensive, excited buzz began to whisper through the opera house as the premiere ticked closer. The performers were not entirely daft; they understood that _Don Juan Triumphant_ was an opera unlike anything the Parisian aristocracy had ever seen before. It was raw, controversial, erotic, and dangerous— and somehow this combination made it unexplainably attractive. After their initial discomfort, the actors and dancers and musicians began to experiment and have fun with their roles, touching on an uncomfortable, yet strangely seductive side of themselves that was brought out by my music. Their doubts about the reactions of the audience members were entirely justifiable— what they didn't understand was that was precisely my point. I was not bound by the laws of man, his society or his God; _Don Juan Triumphant_ was my bold declaration of that statement. It was a means for seducing Christine, of course, and without a doubt its most focused, paramount goal. But this was also something grander, larger… this was my first and last address to the human race that shunned me. This was my mark on the world, a cultural and social phenomenon. This was my determining step… supposing, just _supposing_ it didn't work, and Christine was not enraptured by my music— I would have at least presented my life's work to the public to be scrutinized, criticized, and secretly obsessed over by the swine who ruled Europe. And then I would take my own life, retiring for the last time to my tomb beneath the _Opera Populaire_.

But I would not think such morbid thoughts. Christine would give in— she had to. She _had_ to.

Five days. Then four… three… two… one…

_A/N: -drumroll- Ooh, I'm excited for PonR! Sorry, I know it's taking awhile, but this was the last filler. I have an obsession with detail; it would have killed me to breeze over an entire month and jump right to opening night. Anywho, the next chapter will be the pre-show happenings and a bit of DJT, and the one right after it will be PonR. It's so sad… this story is coming pretty close to its end, and I think I'm subconsciously trying to drag it out, haha. –blushes- I know you're anxious, though… a lot will be happening in the next few chapters, so buckle up!_


	40. Seal My Fate Tonight

_**A/N: Auggh, you guys, I'm SO sorry! –weeps, grovels, and scrapes at your feet- I am a horrible, mean, cruel authoress and I'm very, VERY sorry for making you wait so long for this update. (Over a month, I know… -cringes-) I caught the sickness from Hell: bronchitis, pneumonia, mono, and a sinus infection all at the same time. It was disgusting, but I got a lot of time to rest over Thanksgiving break, so now I'm back in school and (almost) caught up in my classes, so I had enough time to squeeze in this update. It's a nice long chapter as an "I'm sorry" present. –hangs head in shame- Contrary to popular belief, I still adore writing this story, and I swear I am the luckiest authoress on ff dot net, because I certainly have the most loyal bunch of readers and reviewers our phandom has ever seen! Hugs, kisses, and leftover turkey, stuffing and cranberry sandwiches to all! **_

It was the night of the premiere.

Internally, I was a nervous wreck, though I would have died rather than let the raging apprehension break through my mask of composure. Of _course_, leave it to my disturbed psyche to dredge up wounds long sealed and buried on the night of my crucial triumph! It was positively infuriating. For months I had been utterly confident about tonight's outcome, but now painful memories of my childhood and adolescence began to stir up clouds of doubt and wariness within me. Even as I worried myself sick (quite literally), I hated myself for fretting, when just days ago I had been as cocky as a strutting schoolboy. I debated myself in circles until my head ached, pacing from one side of my lair to the other for hours on end.

_What was I thinking? This was a terrible mistake. Call it off, damn you, call it off before it's too late! Christine will never—_

_Of course she will, idiot! She has no choice! She will be perfectly alone on that stage, and the gendarmes won't dare shoot if you stay close enough to her. Seduction is merely a game, and you've mastered it. Why balk now when you're so close?_

_Because I'm afraid! What if it doesn't work? What if she chooses the Vicomte after I've given her my soul? I'll die!_

_Then die nobly! Don't cower down here and let Piangi ruin your role. It would be a failure. The Phantom of the Opera does not fail!_

Time slipped like sand through my fingers. A fleeting glance at the grandfather clock told me I had less than three hours until the curtain opened. My feet slowed and finally halted. It was the moment of truth. The situation boiled down to two options: to stay down here, where it was safe, and never lay eyes on Christine— or any other human being, for that matter— for the rest of my miserable life; or to march upstairs, perform my opera, declare my love for Christine, and brace myself for rejection. It was all I had ever known, and I realized I could expect nothing more. If, by some miracle, my plan worked, I would have her for the rest of my life. My heart nearly bled from my chest at the thought. But if, as I was beginning to dread and suspect, Christine, like every other person in my life, betrayed me and ripped my heart open, there was no sense in living; the black water of the lake would be my final resting place.

The decision sounded so simple, but the action itself was excruciating. Years ago, I had concluded that the best way to live my life was in seclusion, far away from the society— the _world_— that hated me. If I was the Devil's Child, let me live in my own Hell, far below the surface of the earth.

_Hide your face so the world will never find you._

It had been my code, my oath, my standard of living for over twenty years. And then had come that life-altering evening when I stumbled upon a broken little child with the voice of an angel. She had resurrected my long-lost ability to care for another human being, to _love_ as I had never loved before.

As I stood there, lost in thought, I wondered whether finding Christine had been a gift or a curse. I had not been _happy_, per se, in my isolation, but I had been safe from the white-hot blade of criticism, scorn, and rejection. However, the very thought of life without her brilliant smile, innocent laugh and beautiful voice crushed my chest like an angry python.

I had never taken such a high risk in my life. To live in solitude for the rest of my life, or to open myself up to that blade again in the hopes that perhaps Christine would be different— perhaps she would not plunge it into my heart?

_I trust you, Christine. God help me… but I trust you._

Swallowing hard, I balled my hands into fists and made my way quickly up through the third cellar passage. For Christine, I would leap from the statue of Apollo and greet a gory death on the cobblestones below with open arms. Certainly I could perform a little bit of music? One song! Just one bloody song and it would be over.

I ran all the way up to the auditorium, convinced if I could simply move fast enough, I would leave my doubts in a cloud of dust. By the time I slid down into the small mechanics room that housed the chandelier chain, I was completely out of breath. I stood there panting for a few moments before moving over to the device. Simple enough— two hooks needed to be unclasped, and a lever flipped. The crystals on the chandelier shuddered and tinkled as the massive lighting fixture suddenly became reliant on a thick maroon rope attached to the one of the lowest rafters onstage. I studied the setup for a few seconds, analyzing the physics, and finally gave a terse nod. It would hold, but just barely.

Granted, this was just a precaution— a fallback of sorts. Supposing the gendarmes were bolder than I gave them credit for, and they actually decided to shoot… I would be prepared. A single slice of that rope would send the grand chandelier crashing into the orchestra pit, giving me time enough to escape before the police could take better aim. And if they missed, and accidentally hit my precious Christine…

The very thought made my eyes flash with cold venom. Every last one of them would be murdered in their beds; I would slaughter every gendarme in Paris if they committed such a mortal sin, along with the Vicomte and his puppet managers.

But all of this was folly, for I was nearly positive they would not shoot with over twenty innocent civilians onstage. Even Andre and Firmin, in their infinite stupidity, would not be so dense as to give such an order. The chandelier would stay right where it belonged, so long as everything went according to plan.

I said a silent prayer to Fate, God, Aphrodite, the Heavens, or whatever supernatural being might be controlling the outcome of the night, skeptical it was even worth my breath. God had never listened to me before, when I was an innocent little boy, cowering under the gypsy's whip. Why would He bother now, when I was a notorious murderer?

_No_, I decided finally, _the goddess to whom I should be praying is down the hall, in the fourth dressing room on the right, preparing for the performance_. Tonight she would either make or break my soul, and at the moment I wanted nothing more than for the orchestra to start playing so we could just get it over with. If I had to have my heart torn from my chest and crushed beneath her dainty foot, I wanted it done quickly. Prolonged suffering had never really appealed to me. Conversely, if she were to choose me, as every last fiber in my being implored, then I was dying to hold her in my arms and claim those perfect lips. There were still two and a half hours left until the curtain opened, and I was ready to commit suicide from impatience.

Needing the comfort of constant movement, I slipped back through the trapdoor and headed around the horseshoe-shaped passage toward the rafters. Below me, the orchestra members were playing individual warm-ups, which were awkward and hair-raising when combined. I brushed quickly past them and climbed down to the stage level, careful to remain hidden in shadow. It felt odd moving about without my cloak, and I was especially wary because I was wearing a white shirt. Although no one took notice of me, I felt as if I stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the crimson folds of the wings, and ducked back through the trapdoor like a kicked dog.

As I wandered through the backstage area, I caught little clips of conversation here and there, none of which were particularly intriguing, but at least they kept my mind from the impending performance. Two of the ballet rats, Sidonie and Raquelle, were discussing their vulgar private lives, their voices slurred with alcohol. In another corner, Madame Giry was lecturing one of the stagehands about keeping his hands off of her girls until they were at _least_ thirteen years old. Disgusted, I moved into what appeared to be an unoccupied prop room, only to find Carlotta and Piangi busying themselves on the couch from last season's performance of _Faust_.

_Is there a single virtuous, decent person in this entire establishment?_ I wondered irritably. The irony of the situation didn't hit me until I had begun to gravitate habitually toward the fourth dressing room on the right: the composer of the most controversial, obscene opera ever to grace Paris was accusing his performers of debauchery. I would have laughed had I not been so damned nervous.

Christine was alone in her dressing room, thankfully. The Vicomte was off God-knows-where, probably briefing his quaint little squad of policemen for their job tonight. It was almost endearing… the white knight in shining armor thought he could save the damsel in distress and rescue the city from the monster's wrath with a mismatched band of local, underpaid soldiers.

_Almost_ endearing… but not quite.

She was crying quietly. The sound of her muffled sobs stopped me in my tracks, and I decided perhaps it wouldn't be the best idea to creep over to the mirror. If I saw her delicate cheeks glistening with tears, I might not be able to restrain myself from running to her and kissing them away. Nevertheless, the instinctual desire to comfort and protect her welled painfully within me. My muscles tensed with the urge to sing. Christine and I both needed to lose ourselves in the comforting oblivion of music, something in a foreign tongue…

Just as I settled on an old Arabic lullaby and opened my mouth to sing, a knock sounded at the door. I glowered, and Christine drew in a sharp breath— we both suspected who was behind the wooden barrier. There was the sound of footsteps, followed by the click of the door and my student's astonished gasp.

"Signor Piangi, this is a surprise…"

The Italian's heavier footsteps clattered on the stone floor, along with Christine's light, scuffling ones. The door clicked shut again, and my frown deepened. It sounded almost as if he were pushing her back into the room…

Ignoring my pretence, I climbed immediately down to the backside of the mirror and peered in adamantly. Just as I had suspected, the obese globule had cornered my innocent protégé, and fear radiated from her in waves at the suggestive glint of his piggy eyes. His gaze rested on her breasts, which were currently bound in the tight, revealing corset of her Aminta costume.

"Signorina Daaé, you look stunning tonight," he purred, grabbing her milky hand in his pudgy one and smacking his lips over it. I was quaking with rage, rivulets of sweat streaming down the small of my back. Not five minutes ago he had been using that mouth in a most foul and disturbing manner. That he would dare to come anywhere near Christine after that disgusting display was…

"How can I help you, monsieur?" she asked politely, still backing away from his looming form.

He grinned, licking those fetid lips. "You're a lucky, lucky girl, Christine. Twenty eight beautiful chorus girls in thees opera 'ouse, but only you have the honor of being my new… _project_."

All of us were breathing through parted lips now: he from desire, her from fear, me from unbridled fury. If it came to it, I would not hesitate to burst through this mirror and strangle him with a single flick of catgut.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," she lied, her voice trembling audibly.

"I think-eh you do," Piangi insisted, reaching out to stroke her curls. My hand flew to my waist of its own accord, and my heart skipped a beat when I found the Punjab absent. _Damn it_, I had left my belt in the lair with the rest of my costume! Seething, I pressed myself to the glass, prepared to strangle him with my bare hands if he tried anything more.

"I have to get ready for the show," Christine said, her face and voice deadpan. The color had drained from her cheeks, making her look ill. "If you'll excuse me, Signor Piangi…"

"Very well," he consented, an infuriatingly smug grin stretching his fat face. "We'll-eh talk more about this after the show, eh, _mia bellezza_?"

Christine nodded numbly, and I silently swore she would never have to suffer through that conversation. Originally I had not planned on killing him when I took his place in the performance; a timely burst of sleeping gas or perhaps a gag and a broom closet would have done the trick. Now my mind was made up. As soon as I was sure he would not come back to pester my student, I would go back down to my lair, dress for the part, and make sure I had both the Punjab and a spare length of rope. He would be dead before his head hit the ground. No one harassed my sweet, innocent Christine without paying the price.

I stayed and watched over her for the next hour, my eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness. She seemed too drained to weep, but sighed melancholically every few minutes as she shifted from one task to the next. When her makeup and hair were finished, a blood red rose tucked behind her ear, and her waist wrapped with a gold gypsy shawl, she finally stood and slowly made her way over to the door. She paused for the briefest of moments and squeezed her eyes shut, gathering strength, no doubt, for the evening ahead.

"You'll be fine," I whispered. Christine stiffened, but after a moment her shoulders relaxed again, and she gave a terse, accepting nod before stepping out into the hallway.

It was my cue to finish getting ready. The hall outside of Christine's room was reasonably quiet, meaning the ballerinas had scampered off to begin stretching. The kitchens would be open as well, though very few performers actually ate anything on the night of a premiere. Sighing deeply, and still bristling from Piangi's intrusion, I slipped back down to the fifth cellar to change into the rest of my outfit.

The temperature had dropped to freezing over the past week, and it was at least ten degrees cooler in the lair. I was grateful for the extra layers of the costume, especially the fur-lined cloak, but even so I could not seem to alleviate the bone-deep chill that had settled over me. Suddenly overwhelmed with an unexplained, violent anger at my inability to get warm, I snatched the nearest candle, not caring that the melted wax was scalding my fingers. With a raucous growl, I hurled it at the wall as hard as I could and watched with mild satisfaction as it snapped in two and set a few of Christine's portraits ablaze. For a few seconds I watched them burn nonchalantly before picking up a bucket and dousing the smoldering papers with lake water.

Feeling slightly better, I moved over to my desk and donned the last few pieces of my outfit. The underside of the black wig was rough and itchy against my scalp, but at least it provided more insulation than the pitiful wisps of my real hair.

_Now for the tricky part,_ I mused, looking over the gathered make-up utensils. This wasn't the first time I had created a flesh-like mask to cover my deformity, but that didn't make it any less difficult. A bowl sat on the desk, filled with a thick jelly the color of my skin. Next to it was a small, square mirror, propped up against the back of the desk. I caught a glimpse of my bare face in it before looking quickly away. Little dark bags hung under my eyes from a lack of sleep and the illness that still hadn't departed my body entirely. Without further ado I dipped my finger into the thick gelatin and proceeded to smear it across the right side of my forehead. The makeup began to harden almost immediately upon touching my skin, so I had to work furiously to add layer after layer of the smooth shell until every last bump, vein, and blister was covered.

Unfortunately, there was not enough of the jelly to cover the entire right side of my face, but I wasn't worried; the mask would cover everything from the middle of my forehead to my upper lip. I had to wait only a few minutes for the mask to fully harden against my skin. It was truly a remarkable substance— tender and supple like real skin, molded flawlessly to my face, and yet as easily discarded as a mask of any other material. One had only to peel it off once it had hardened. It was very convenient in times like this, when I needed to cover a small patch of skin, but every experiment I had ever done with it to cover my entire face had been a disaster. I had nearly blinded myself when I had tried to slather it under my drooping right eye, only to irritate and inflame the sensitive membrane.

Finally the mask settled, and I prodded at it experimentally to make sure it wouldn't slip at the slightest movement. It stayed put, thankfully, and with a sigh of relief I snatched my black leather mask and slipped it into place. Glancing once more at my reflection, I hardly recognized myself. With the aid of the gelatin mask, it looked as if…

_As if I'm just another man._

I stared for a few endless minutes, unable to tear my gaze from that face. This is what might have been, I thought repeatedly. Had fate taken a different twist, this was the man I would have been… smooth-skinned, with thick, sleek black hair.

I was almost… _handsome_…

A smug grin cut through my features, the familiar light sparking in my eyes. With that single thought, my confidence swelled. Now the Vicomte had no upper hand, nothing that I didn't have. I could still win. All appearances set aside, Christine and I were left only to our music, and I had written this song specifically to seduce her. It had worked once before; my lips still tingled from the memory.

In considerably higher spirits, I smirked at myself in the mirror and straightened my wig, singing to myself in reassurance.

_Seal my fate tonight,_

_I hate to have to cut the fun short_

In the reflection I caught sight of the stage miniature behind me, and my grin broadened. Turning on my heel, I snatched up another candle from its golden stand and bent over my meticulously-constructed set. Everything was perfect, save one detail…

_But the joke's wearing thin_

_Let the audience in_

_Let my opera begin!_

I dropped the burning candle into the center of the stage and watched, fascinated, horrified, and amused, as the flames swallowed it whole. The fire in the production would not be real, unfortunately; try as I might, I had not been able to convince the managers to set a fire onstage, even if the surrounding wood and curtains were drenched in a flame-resistant chemical…

"Idiots," I grumbled under my breath as I took the water bucket and doused the smoldering embers before they could light the table on fire. "No artistic appreciation whatsoever."

The grandfather clock struck seven thirty, and my head jerked toward it incredulously. Half an hour until show time…

Nervousness wrenched at my gut, but this time I managed to drown it out, dismissing it as nothing more than a little pre-show butterflies. How many times had I calmed Christine's nerves before a performance, assuring her that she had absolutely nothing to worry about, and that anxiety would only serve to harm her performance?

… It didn't help.

Swallowing hard, I moved over to the filtered pool and cupped some of the water in my hands, bringing it to my parched lips. Suddenly I was insatiably thirsty, but after four more handfuls I moved away from the pool, knowing full well the risks of drinking too much Parisian water, filtered or not.

I settled for pacing. It was too early to creep back upstairs, as I would only wind up doing something regrettable. The gendarmes were probably already at their stations, and if I was in the rafters with nothing to assuage my nerves, I would just as soon strangle one of them as look at him. And contrary to popular belief, I did not enjoy killing; I was indifferent to it.

Except, of course, in the case of infuriating bastards such as Piangi… oh, I would take _great_ joy in sapping the life from his mammoth form.

I fingered the Punjab lasso absently as I strode from one side of the lair to the other and back again, glancing up at the clock each time I passed it. The minutes crept by agonizingly, as if Time was amusing himself by drawing each second out as long as possible.

At last the minute hand ticked onto the 9, and I shot into the nearest tunnel like a bullet. There were still fifteen minutes before the curtain rose, but I couldn't stand it any more. I moved at a pace somewhere between a walk and a run, too anxious for the former and too nervous that I would wreck the jelly mask for the latter.

Most of the audience had already taken their seats. It was a full house— not exactly surprising, but my chest swelled with pride at the thought nonetheless. I watched from the rafters as dukes, earls, counts, and their beautiful trophy wives looked over the program and made little comments behind fans and powdered, gloved hands. Some looked positively scandalized, others enthralled.

_Trust me, ladies and gentlemen, you have no idea what awaits you… _

If time had been dragging its heels in the lair, now it seemed to be moving at double-time to make up for it. Before I knew it, the orchestra was playing the opening chords, and the ballet rats scurried in every direction to take their positions. The murmur in the audience dulled to whispers, but was never fully extinguished.

_Here the sire may serve the dam,_

_Here the master takes his meat!_

_Here the sacrificial lamb_

_Utters one despairing bleat!_

_Poor young maiden! For the thrill_

_On your tongue of stolen sweets_

_You will have to pay the bill -_

_Tangled in the winding sheets!_

_Serve the meal and serve the maid!_

_Serve the master so that, when_

_Tables, plans and maids are laid,_

_Don Juan triumphs once again!_

I watched from high above the stage with a strange detachment from the music and events taking place below me, as if I were just another spectator who had never before seen or heard the opera. For awhile I simply watched the first scene unfold, lost in the performance, until Piangi's hair-raising voice jarred me from my reverie.

_Passarino, faithful friend_

_Once again recite the plan_

I blinked the haze from my eyes, and watched as Rossini began to sing _almost _in-key. Breathing an almost inaudible sigh of relief, I took hold of a rope beside me and climbed up to a higher catwalk. Everything was going well so far. The Vicomte was sitting up in _my_ box, as usual, but I had no use for it tonight. His face was set in a determined expression, and he and the managers were flanked by two gendarmes apiece; only his eyes, which darted feverishly around the room, searching for any sign of me, betrayed his nervousness. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I situated myself on a rafter directly behind the curtain, like a panther ready to pounce.

_Your young guest believes I'm you_

_I, the master, you, the man_

_When you met you wore my cloak,_

_With my scarf you hid your face._

_She believes she dines with me,_

_In her master's borrowed place!_

_Furtively, we'll scoff and quaff,_

_Stealing what, in truth, is mine._

_When it's late and modesty_

_Starts to mellow with the wine_

The Italians moved upstage, so that I was staring down at the bald spots on the tops of their heads. Every muscle in my body was tensed, the Punjab clutched at the ready in my right hand. Christine was much farther upstage, her expression glazed, as if she was daydreaming. Fortunately she didn't look as if she would be moving backstage any time soon, for as much as I loathed Piangi, I could not further corrupt her innocence by forcing her to watch a cold-blooded murder at the hands of her mentor and (hopefully) friend. Slowly, I began to shut down my mind— it was impossible to take a life while allowing one's mind to be fully functional.

_You come home! I'll use your voice—_

_Slam the door like crack of doom_

_I shall say "Come hide with me,_

_Where, oh where? Of course! My room…"_

_Poor thing hasn't got a chance!_

_Here's my hat, my cloak and sword_

_Conquest is assured_

_If I do not forget myself and laugh!_

The laughter had not yet died on Piangi's lips when I dropped down upon him. He had time only to suck in a breath of air in a loud gasp before the Punjab whistled through the air and snagged around his neck. Both of his pudgy hands flew to his throat as his eyes bulged, and I watched with cold, glaring eyes as his mouth worked in a useless attempt to draw in air.

Much as I abhorred him, even _I_ was not cruel enough to make him suffer for long. A sneer curled my lip as I leaned forward, bringing my face within a centimeter of his.

"This," I hissed, "is for Christine."

It was the last thing he heard. With a single jerk, it was over; he fell to the floor with a dull thump. I was panting and snarling like a wild animal, baring my teeth at the lifeless corpse. So consumed was I in primal instincts that it took me a moment to recognize the sweet sound of Christine's voice.

_No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy_

_No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!_

Her voice was all it took to tame my fuming soul. In three seconds flat I managed to collect myself, straighten my mask and wig, and move to the curtain. I closed my eyes for a fleeting moment as I brought my cloaked right arm up to my face, temporarily concealing the fact that Don Juan had magically dropped two hundred pounds. When I reopened them, there was no time for hesitation; Christine was waiting. I stepped through the curtain and into the direct visibility of the audience.

_No going back now…_

_**A/N: Haha, this chapter is getting ridiculously long! I could go on with PonR, but I'm afraid that would be putting too much strain on this chapter. Better to save it for next time and give the song my full devotion and attention rather than slap it on the end of this one as an afterthought. Again, sorry to those of you who have been waiting… I swear the next update will not take that long! **_


	41. What Raging Fire

_**A/N: -Is mad- Grrr! I was doing last-minute cleaning for all my relatives to come over tomorrow, and I found my Phantom CD case in a huge messy stack. First I was thrilled because I got to look at all the purdy pictures, and then something caught my eye that made me REALLY MAD!**_

… _**-sniffles- I've been spelling freakin "Passirino" wrong the whole time. **_

_**-sighs- But I don't think I care enough to change it now. Lol. My neurotic, perfectionist side is freaking out though. Hehe. Ah well. There are more important things going on right now.**_

_**Liiike "Point of No Return!" **_

_**Merry Christmas/Happy Chanukah/Ramadan/Kwanzaa/etc/Whatever you celebrate, if anything! Santa brought the chapter you've been waiting for (his little elf was rather busy this week)!**_

_**P.S. My beta is with her mommy for Christmas, so I didn't want to bug her with something so petty as editing. Love you, Emsie! Enjoy your chapter off. ;) **_

The moment I laid eyes on her, all of my fears evaporated. I responded to Rossini's prompt automatically, the music so ingrained on my soul that I hardly took note of the sound of my own voice.

_Passarino…_

_Go away, for the trap is set_

_And waits for its prey _

Christine's curly head was bent low over a basket of roses. She picked at the thorns, absently repeating the small gesture I had performed for the past ten years. Such pitiable creatures, roses… devastatingly handsome, but marred by the promise of pain. Only those daring enough to shed their own blood for the beauty of the blossom could truly appreciate it. But I couldn't stand to see those delicate white fingers stained. As Christine's self-deemed protector, I considered it my duty to remove any potential threats from her life, even ones as simple as this. My gifts to her consisted only of beauty; I had successfully shielded her from the accompanying pain…

Until tonight.

A glistening ruby bead grew on the tip of her forefinger. She studied it with a surprised, intense expression, as if the sight of her own blood was a new and fascinating one. I gravitated slowly toward her, my eyes sweeping over her deliciously feminine form. There was no audience, no other actors on stage, no dancers, no orchestra, no gendarmes… I even managed to temporarily forget the Vicomte de Chagny.

There was only music, Christine, and me. I could no longer decipher whether the vibrations of cellos and violins in my chest were real or imagined, and I didn't care. My voice unfurled like the waves of a rich piece of silk— smooth, refined, and deep with passion.

_You have come here_

_In pursuit of your deepest urge_

Her posture stiffened discreetly— a brief tightening of the muscles that ran the horizontal length of her shoulders. That beautiful porcelain skin broke out in gooseflesh as her breath hitched in her chest. I studied her every movement, reading her body language as simply as I would read the written word. There was undeniable fear in her stance, but something deeper— an unnamed combination of dread, anticipation, and…

A fire lit in my eyes and warmed my body to its core. Internally I shook with triumphant laughter. Only through sheer willpower did I refrain from glancing smugly up at the haughty, self-assured Vicomte. He would not be so haughty by the end of the night. As Christine pivoted slowly to look at me, I saw it as clearly as daylight: desire lingered just beneath her mask of composure. It frightened her, I understood immediately. She did not wish to break beneath the weight of my seductive spell, but by God, I would have her submission and her love. All scraps of hesitation and insecurity were thrown to the wind now. There was no doubt in my mind upon staring into those brown eyes that Christine was mine. I had only to claim her.

_In pursuit of that wish which, till now,_

_Has been silent,_

_Silent…_

I could not suppress a wry smile as I brought one finger to my lips, a playful warning for her to keep quiet and move forward with the production as if nothing were amiss. Christine was not impressed; she looked quickly away, her eyes glazed, her lips pursed. I was not deterred— I took her reaction as a challenge, and released my voice with so much power on the next verse that the entire auditorium seemed to quake.

_I have brought you_

_That our passions may fuse and merge!_

_In your mind you've already succumbed to me_

_Dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me_

Somehow in the back of my mind I remembered to execute the proper staging, moving in a slow arc around the billowing paper flames. As I sang, I lifted my right arm in a subtle sweep— Christine's cue to stand. However, she was completely enraptured by the spell I was weaving with my voice, and did nothing but stare incredulously, her reddened lips forming a perfect "o". Her undivided attention made me stand straighter, hold my head a bit higher… suddenly we were in my lair again, Christine staring up at me in awed wonder while I sang to her of the boundless opportunities my music had to offer. My wounded confidence grew with every passing moment, a cocky smile beginning to tug at the corners of my mouth. For the past fifteen weeks I had been her slave and shadow, as desperate for her affection as a stray dog. Now the tables had turned, and the power was back in my grasp. It tingled in my veins like a potent drug, and I basked in it as it fortified and mended my pride.

_Now you are here with me_

_No second thoughts_

_You've decided…_

_Decided…_

Again I flicked my arm in a swooping motion, more accentuated this time. Still gaping and without breaking eye contact, Christine rose slowly to her feet and simply stood there like a marionette waiting for her puppeteer to move the strings. I swallowed the moan of desire that welled in my throat as I soaked in her unbearably tempting curves. For months I had worked on the costume designs, sketching Christine in her Aminta attire from every angle, but nothing I could have drawn, sculpted, or imagined could ever compare to the living, breathing goddess who stood before me in the flesh. She was Aphrodite incarnate, with her dark curls and eyes contrasting starkly to her creamy skin. Her corseted chest rose and fell rapidly with shallow breaths as she stared into my lust-darkened eyes. The air between us crackled with heavy tension hotter than any fire in Hell.

There was too much space between us. Desperate to close it, but too proud to appear anxious, I strode evenly across the stage.

_Past the point of no return,_

_No backward glances!_

_Our games of make-believe are at an end_

Wrenching my gaze away from Christine for fear of losing my barely maintained self-control, I shifted my eyes up to Box Five for the briefest of moments. Monsieur le Vicomte's regal face was etched with deep lines of worry as he watched Christine fall prey to my enchantment, his blue eyes wide in horror.

I could no longer suppress a triumphant, smug grin.

_How does it feel, Monsieur, to be on the losing end for once? To watch your stunning fiancée pant with desire for another man? Betrayal is a new sensation for you, my pretty little Vicomte, isn't it? Get used to it. Christine is _mine

Swelling with confidence, I turned back to Christine, my eyes glittering with victory, desire, and fierce possessiveness. It appeared she had not noticed my brief shift of attention, but to make up for it I stared so intensely at her that my eyes burned.

_Past all thought of "if" or "when,"_

_No use resisting!_

_Abandon thought and let the dream descend_

I brought my hand to the level of my eyes and elegantly lowered it in the swell of its accompanying music, deepening Christine's trance like a skilled snake charmer. In a single, sharp movement I shifted the same hand to her throat and swung about to stand behind her. She stiffened in shock before her muscles melted and her head fell back beneath the gentle pressure of my fingertips.

_What raging fire shall flood the soul?_

_What rich desire unlocks its door?_

I could feel her pulse throbbing erratically in my palm, echoing my own. Thrills of desire coursed through me and lit a fire below my abdomen, but I pulled away before she could feel any evidence of it against the small of her back. She gasped softly and stared with a mixture of incredulity and pleasant surprise as I skirted my fingers from her collarbone down her arm, pausing at the bangle around her wrist to briefly massage her soft palm.

_What sweet seduction lies before us?_

Very slowly, I led Christine to center stage, refusing to break eye contact until I released her hand. It took every ounce of willpower within me to move a few steps away from her, allowing her the proper space to prepare for her own solo.

_Past the point of no return,_

_The final threshold _

_What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn_

_Beyond the point of no return?_

The spell was broken the second her hand slipped from mine. She shied away from me, giving a slight jolt as if she had been caught doing something inappropriate. Confusion clouded her sienna eyes as she fiddled with the lace sleeves of her bodice self-consciously. Slowly realization dawned in those beautiful orbs, and with it came an unmistakable self-disgust. I tried to keep a tight rein on my temper as she shook her head angrily and trilled the first tense, excruciatingly forced notes.

_You have brought me_

_To that moment when words run dry_

_To that moment when speech disappears _

_Into silence_

_Silence…_

My eyes seared like emerald fire as I followed her gaze up to Box Five. The Vicomte nodded reassuringly at her, gesturing to the gendarme that flanked him, then nodding to the flabbergasted managers, who also brought forth their band of useless policemen. The gendarme under Andre's control took aim at me, but Raoul raised a hand in a signal to hold. Christine flashed them an exasperated, hopeless expression, finally realizing the stupidity of her fiancé's "brilliant plan."

_I have come here_

_Hardly knowing the reason why_

Christine's expression shifted from one of despair to resigned determination as she looked out at the audience, remembering suddenly that she was an actress in a production which people had paid good money to see. Her eyes rolled shut as she fell back into her role, and her voice deepened and smoothed out to a more pleasant pitch.

_In my mind I've already imagined_

_Our bodies entwining,_

_Defenseless and silent_

As she turned to face me her lace sleeves dropped weightlessly, revealing two milky shoulders whose memory made my mouth water. Even as warning bells sounded in my head, I could not fight the heat growing inside of me as she stared seductively into my eyes. Had I possessed my wits in that moment, I would have been furious at her deceptive game. She was taking advantage of my weakness for her, and I knew it, but even this knowledge could not save me from Christine's seductive spell. The tables were turning again, and I could do nothing but watch helplessly as the power slid into Christine's outstretched hands.

_Now I am here with you,_

_No second thoughts,_

_I've decided…_

_Decided…_

The earnestness in her eyes, the tiny smile at the corner of her lips, and the reassuring nod she offered me were my undoing. My lips parted with an involuntary, trembling exhale as her rich voice proclaimed the words I had waited my whole life to hear. I didn't care if it was a lie; I basked in those moments, clinging to them and cherishing them as a starving man savors a long-awaited meal.

_Past the point of no return_

_No going back now!_

_Our passion play has now, at last, begun_

But something changed in Christine as we ascended the winding staircases on opposite sides of the stage. The words and music worked their own enchantment on her susceptible young mind— or perhaps, as I preferred to believe, fanned a buried ember within her into a blazing fire. Either way, everything about her changed as she spiraled upward, her gaze locked with mine. Her voice dripped with unprecedented passion, no longer forced or pretended. The yearning in her eyes mirrored my own with terrifying and exhilarating intensity. I found myself trembling under the scorching heat of her gaze, my heart hammering mercilessly as I panted for much-needed air.

_Past all thought of right or wrong_

_One final question:_

_How long should we two wait before we're one?_

The yearning arch of her neck as she belted this particular line paralyzed me. If I had questioned the sincerity of her performance before, there was not the slightest trace of doubt in my heart now that she meant every word. This revelation slammed the air from my chest as if I had run head-on into a wall. I could do nothing but stare at her in a combination of incredulity, relief, and joy so deep tears burned the backs of my eyes.

But suddenly she was moving again, and my feet followed suit of their own accord. I kept waiting for Christine to throw back her head and laugh maliciously at the fact that I believed she could ever love a monster… but she never did. On the contrary, her voice became increasingly breathless and choked with desire as the song progressed.

_When will the blood begin to race?_

_The sleeping bud burst into bloom?_

_When will the flames at last consume us?_

At last we were face to face, and I was once again awestruck by her flawless beauty. Hot, pulsating energy crackled in the air separating us, and only grew in intensity as we approached one another. Sweat trickled down the arch of my back— if I hadn't known better, I would have sworn the pit of flames beneath us was real. With a single flick of my arm I tossed my bull-baiting cloak onto the banister behind me, and moved toward Christine slowly, almost afraid that we would burn one another if we touched.

Our voices rose in unison, spiraling upward into a brilliant, impassioned crescendo unlike any the world had heard, or ever would again. Emotion and music melded until they were undistinguishable from one another— it was the most beautiful sound I had heard in my life, and years later, the memory would bring a mist of tears to my eyes.

_Past the point of no return_

_The final threshold!_

_The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn!_

My fingers found her waist and held on for dear life, for I was sure I would fall to the stage two stories below without her fragile support. Christine's hands, too, clutched my waist, and I noticed vaguely that they trembled violently. She refused to meet my eyes now, but I didn't mind; we each watched our hands as I spun Christine beneath my arm and hugged her back to my chest. In the instant her body molded to mine, my burning heart softened, though it didn't cease its frantic beating. Some of the tension in her muscles seemed to slacken, too, and our voices were quiet and tremulous as we sang the end of our duet.

_We've passed the point of no return_

An eerie calm settled over the two of us as I held Christine gently, mustering the courage to take her hands in my own and run them gently over the curves of her breasts and firm abdomen. It was déjà vu, really— we were down in the lair again, singing merely for the pleasure and beauty of it, two lonely souls starved for intimacy. I shut out the rest of the room; my eyes were closed against the garish stage lights and the thousands of eyes watching us. My angel smelled divine… her skin and hair even more so than the rose tucked behind her ear. I buried my face in her curls and inhaled the intoxicating scent that was uniquely Christine's. Slowly, gently, I stroked the delicate skin of her neck with the pads of my fingertips, just barely restraining from bestowing the same caresses with my lips. Christine offered silent encouragement to continue, tilting her head to allow me easier access. I smiled faintly, only too happy to oblige. An emotion so powerful as to be nameless welled in my chest and gathered in a thick, painful lump in my throat.

"I love you," I whispered so faintly I wasn't sure she had heard me. When she made no reaction, I expressed myself a bit louder— only a bit— allowing music to connect our souls as spoken word never could. My voice broke on the first word, but smoothed out as I sang to her the quiet profession of love which she had accepted once before, albeit from a different man. I could only pray that the same would occur this time around.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_

Christine made no sign of pulling away, but continued to draw in deep, even breaths, as if she were sleeping. I nuzzled the curve of her neck and continued caressing her throat and collarbone. She made the faintest whimper of pleasure, a smile warming her beautiful face.

_Lead me, save me, from my solitude_

((A/N: Does anyone have a tissue? –sniffles- "From My Solitude"… -bawls- … … … I'm okay.))

_Say you want me with you here, beside you…_

She sucked in a sharp breath, as if woken from a trance. I watched, undeterred, as her eyelids fluttered open, my fingers slipping from her neck to take her hands. By that point I was utterly convinced of her loyalty. She had decided, and I believed her.

_Anywhere you go let me go too!_

For a moment my heart wrenched with doubt— there was indecision in her eyes, plain as day. But as I sang to her, her expression softened, and tears gathered in those chocolate pools. She stroked my knuckles with her slender white fingers and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze before lifting her palm to cup my left cheek tenderly.

So caught up in the moment was I that I forgot the production entirely— and in the process, accidentally used her precious name in the place of Don Juan's love interest. My eyes were so blurred with tears that I missed the pain in her own.

_Christine, that's all I ask of—_

_**A/N: DUNNN! DUN DUN DUN DUN DUNNNNNN! …**_

_**DUNNNNNNNNN DUN. DUN. DUN. DUN. DUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!**_

_**-grins- Oh, come on, I know you were all singing it with me. ;)**_

_**Cliffies are evil, yes, yes, I'm aware. But I tried to leave it off at a spot where you could all close your eyes in denial, shake your heads, and finish the story the happy, phluffy E/C way:**_

"'_**YOOOOU!' And then Christine kissed Erik and Raoul burst into tears like the fop he was and two months later Erik and Christine got married and then they had a mess of kids who sang like angels and had their daddy's eyes and mommy's hair and Erik NEVER DIED because he was actually IMMORTAL like Dracula… -off on a tangent- ooh, Gerry in Dracula… can we say YUM? –pants for breath-"**_

… _**or something like that. XD**_

_**Happy Holidays, everyone! I love you all! –freshly baked gingerbread cookies and a glass of ice cold eggnog- **_


	42. Darkness Deep as Hell

_**A/N: Gah, this chapter took me forever and a day to write, interrupted like 10 times by finals, babysitting, my sister, etc. So sorry about the delay! It hasn't QUITE been a month yet! –sheepish grin-**_

**_Disclaimer: All but two segments of the lyrics in this chapter are compliments of the brilliant Charles Hart. I'm sure you can pick out which ones are mine— the awkward ones, of course! ;) _**

Someone was shrieking— a bloodcurdling noise, sodden with terror.

_A cage… cold metal bars, a layer of straw drenched with my own urine and vomit. That same deafening noise… screams of horror, assuaged by the crack of a heavy, hollow branch against my flesh. Bruises, bleeding gashes, too many broken ribs to count. The cries of fright dissolve into raucous laughter. Jeering faces, but _complete_ faces… beautiful and smooth, framed by neat curls. Chants of "the Devil's Child," the gypsy's foot landing solidly in my abdomen. More laughter. The clink of coins, and momentary peace… and thirty minutes later, more screams. _

My mind curled in on itself protectively, shutting down senses one by one. It had learned over the years how to survive immeasurable agony, adapting to tortures that no human should ever have had to endure. Instincts long ingrained on my soul pushed forward dutifully, as they always had.

Screams. A carousel of colors, light, and blurred movements. The wild, rolling whites of human eyes… or were they demons? For an eternal moment, time stood still, and the doors of Hell closed in on me.

I turned my blind gaze to the source of the shrieks, and felt a draft on the right side of my face. A gentle breeze from the heating vent rippled through my hair— my real hair— and skirted over the bubbled flesh beneath it.

Terror's white hot fingers gripped my chest with bruising force, slamming the air from my lungs. Sucking in a tremulous gasp for air, I shifted wide, incredulous eyes back to the woman before me.

_Why is she crying?_

And I saw the mask in her pale hand.

It was if the weight of the universe came crashing down upon me, and for the first time in my life, my weary soul collapsed beneath the unbearable burden. Excruciating pain exploded in my chest, too powerful to be voiced. I am sure it was reflected in my eyes, though… for she broke then, the mask fluttering to the stage from her limp fingers as tears of remorse streamed from those beautiful brown eyes.

How I wanted to hate her. Broken, betrayed, and bared to the jeers and screams of the audience, the caged animal within me clawed viciously to get free, to unleash my unbridled fury on the traitor before me. The fact that I loved her, that I had believed her _incapable_ of such an act, only fueled my rage to the point of hysteria.

But part of me refused to believe she could do such a thing— that she must have had ulterior motives not immediately clear to me. The lame excuse that the Vicomte still controlled her like a marionette fell flat before it could fully form in my mind. Still… the childish, trusting side of me refused to condemn this fallen angel to the same standing as the rest of humanity until I was absolutely certain she deserved the sentence. The two opposing sides battled furiously for ground: the urge to loathe Christine and punish her mercilessly for this unforgivable sin, or the instinctual desire to make excuses for her, to salvage her reputation once again.

Vaguely I noticed cool metal brushing my fingertips, and all of a sudden I remembered the chandelier. Already I could make out the blur of running gendarmes among the horrified crowd. There was no time to stand, paralyzed, in front of those who would just as soon shoot me as lock me in jail. Fueled by adrenaline, I unsheathed my sword and slashed furiously at the maroon rope holding the massive lighting fixture in place. Christine hardly had time to gasp before I grabbed her harshly around the waist, pulling her tightly against me. With a single, solid kick to the trapdoor beneath us, we were falling, Christine's skirt blowing provocatively up around her thighs. She screamed hoarsely as we plummeted through the paper flames and into darkness, clinging instinctively to me.

I would have laughed at the irony under any other circumstances.

I couldn't see. Burning tears tore across my face, whipped from my eyes by the air rushing past us. The stone two floors below seemed to race up to meet our feet, but somehow I subconsciously remembered to bend my knees upon impact. Nevertheless, I had to fight to suppress a scream as tendrils of pain shot through my feet. Christine was a few centimeters above me, and when she hit a fraction of a second later, she lost her balance and toppled forward, throwing us both to the ground.

An awkward moment ensued as my back hit the floor and Christine fell on top of me, her legs straddling either side of my hips. Demonic thoughts pervaded my mind at the sensation— I was still aroused by her seductive performance of just a few minutes prior. We were far below the stage, in _my_ domain; if I were to take her there and then, no one would ever know…

But enraged as I was, my conscience would not allow such an act. Trying to mask my moment of weakness, I catapulted violently to my feet and took hold of the crook of her arm, pulling her roughly toward my lair.

"Please, Angel," she pleaded, throwing her weight in the opposite direction and casting a pleading glance upwards. "Please, let me go!"

I only tugged harder, refusing to be swayed by the affectionate title. The pain coursing through my feet caused my normally feline gait to swagger with a harsh limp. I knew better than to try to hide my agony, for it shone clear as day in my expression. But in a brash attempt to save my pride, I lashed out at her with the most tortuous weapon I could come up with— her one source of comfort in times of anguish: my voice. If it was an angel she wanted, an angel she would have… a dark, menacing Angel of Vengeance.

_Down once more to the dungeons of my black despair_

_Down we plunge to the prison of my mind!_

_Down that path into darkness deep as HELL…_

Christine did everything she could to slow our progress down the tunnel, to no avail. With a violence that would have made me livid enough to kill before tonight, I wrenched at my angel's wrist, undoubtedly leaving bruises on the pale flesh. Shuddering sobs leaked from her perfect lips, but I paid them no heed. Terrible as it sounded, it felt wonderful to inflict physical pain on the woman who had torn my heart from my chest and set it aflame.

Whirling about to face her, I snarled and snapped at her, trying to impress on her the extent of her sin. Of all the people in the world, Christine was supposed to have understood. I had placed every last confidence in her, risking my very soul on the hope that she would be different. My heart bled at the thought of what she had just done— she was no better than the gypsy, who had ripped the burlap sack from my head in countless grotesque exhibits, revealing the monster beneath.

_Why, you ask, was I bound and chained_

_In this cold and dismal place?_

_Not for any mortal sin_

_But the wickedness of my abhorrent face!_

She understood. Her mouth worked silently, her eyes begging forgiveness. In turn my own gaze bore into hers, a façade of unrelenting fury and accusation masking the helplessness of a frightened, wounded child.

_How could you? _The question burned insistently in my throat, silenced only by pride. It was so much easier to maintain the pretense of violent authority, while truly my world was unraveling from the inside out. I _needed_ to be in control. At this very minute the Vicomte was probably winding his way down through the labyrinthine cellars, intent on saving his beloved. Either the boy would be killed by one of my many traps, or by some miracle he would find his way to my lair. By this point, I wasn't willing to test my luck.

There was no time to falter now, with the boy presumably in fast pursuit. Knowing Christine to be both submissive and an obedient Catholic, I could think of one irrefutable way to bind her to me forever. Deceitful little traitor that she was, I still loved her, God help me. And painful as the thought had been to kidnap her before, desperate times called for desperate measures.

Those meticulous hours spent poring over every last stitch on Christine's wedding dress would not go to waste after all.

Nevertheless, my conscience howled in opposition to this new, improvised plan. It insisted that I was not in my right mind— that my explosive, impulsive temper would only get me into trouble again.

I told it irritably to shut up.

We reached the lake at last, and I shoved Christine unceremoniously into the gondola, knowing full well that she would not try to swim away; she was terrified of murky water. She scrambled to the front end of the boat, looking at the pole with wide eyes as I picked it up and dipped it into the water, as if she feared I would strike her with it.

One of my heartstrings snapped with a resounding jolt of pain, but I only clenched my jaw and looked determinedly away. Above all things, I could not afford to let her break my resolve.

But Christine was putting up a hell of a fight. Her eyes searched mine imploringly for any sign of the benevolent angel who had instructed her gently for the past decade.

_Angel, you know I'd never shun you_

_Spare me your wrath, listen!_

_Once again my strength has failed me_

_Forgive, my kind angel!_

Even as her voice ripped at the fragile seams holding my façade together, my tenacity grew stronger. Her tears and whimpered pleas would get her nowhere; I had coddled her for far too long, and look where it had gotten me!

Using this thought as fuel for a new outburst of anger, I turned my fiery gaze back to her, biting out a harsh reprise.

_Cunning serpent, you are beaten,_

_Persephone dragged to the grave,_

_No use resisting your true role_

_As the darkness' slave!_

She curled into a ball, shaking her head wildly. "Let me go, Erik!" she sobbed. "Please!"

"I owe you no favors, _my dear_," I spat. To my horror, I felt an insuppressible surge of tears burning my throat, choking the last few words. "I have given you _everything_, Christine, and for what? You are no different from _them_!" I gestured fiercely to the ceiling, my lip curled in disgust.

Christine opened her mouth to protest as the hull of the gondola struck shore, but I refused to let her speak. Resorting to another short-lived, temperamental outburst, I gestured demandingly for her to get up, and stooped down to force her when she remained curled in a ball. Her defiance only served to further the rift that I imagined growing between us, and for every millimeter gained, my desperation to draw her close heightened concurrently. Jerking her into my arms, I hugged her to my chest, only further infuriated as she beat her fists and kicked in a valiant struggle to free herself.

Bitter tears cascaded down my cheeks as I lifted and carried her over to the wax replica of herself, my frustration building with every movement she made to scramble out of my grasp. Why couldn't she understand what she was doing to me? Finally I could take it no more; I wanted Christine back, _my_ Christine, who understood my pain intuitively. Grasping for one of my last cards, I resorted to my tragic past—which she understood all too well—as a desperate tool to restore some kind of connection between us.

_Hounded out by everyone_

_Met with hatred everywhere_

_No kind words from anyone,_

_No compassion anywhere,_

_Christine!_

By some miracle, it worked. Christine ceased to struggle, and I allowed her to slide to the ground. My hands shook feverishly as I moved them from her waist up to her jaw line, a gesture which might have been intimate not a week ago.

_Intimate. _It seemed a laughable term now. Any faith I had once held for intimacy had been dashed by the trembling young woman before me. I believed in passion, of course, and perhaps even the childish notion of romance… but for me, at least, I now understood that the sacred bond of lovers would never be known to me.

I had no bond with anyone. Longing and thirsting for the unconditional love of another human being had never done me any good. My own mother had detested me, brushing me away like a hideous, pesky insect; the midwife had suggested that I be dumped in the smoldering fireplace as a newborn; the priest had clucked miserably at the abomination lying in the cradle at my mother's bedside, hesitantly baptizing me in the name of the God who _so obviously_ loved me enough to _bless_ me with the face of a child dead and buried for three months.

What a fool I had been to believe that Christine would be different. Granted, we had shared a so-called "intimate" relationship as teacher and pupil, friends of the night… but it had been as superficial as the scrap of leather covering my repugnant face. The second she had peeled it away, those long months ago in the privacy of my lair, I should have had the foresight and wisdom to back out of our doomed relationship before it was too late.

Now I was convinced that there was no greater curse to the human race than optimism.

But I was too far gone now for remorse and reflections. "Could have" and "should have" would get me nothing. Christine and I had stepped hand-in-hand over the point of no return, and now we would face the consequences, together. It was a slick, steep slope we now descended, with no hope of redemption. Even so, my throat was still thick and heavy with the burden of a single, burning question. Although there was nothing to be done about it now— no backward glances— I had to know one thing before plunging into utter darkness with my fallen angel in tow.

Searching the ashes of Christine's eyes for any last flicker of hope, I asked brokenly, "Why?" She could do nothing but stare back up at me numbly, and I shook her, as if hoping to jar her out of a terrible, hallucinatory trance. "_WHY_?"

Two runny tears dribbled from her already-drenched lashes as she cast her eyes downwards. Letting out a shaky, frustrated sigh, I released my grip on her and turned away, scraping my fingers through my hair. My energy was spent; physically and mentally, I was exhausted.

Leaning my forehead against the wall of the cavern, I waved vaguely at the wax mannequin, mumbling, "The dress. Take it. You may change in the Louis-Philippe room."

There was a brief, confused silence before Christine asked tremblingly, "We are to be married?"

I glanced over my shoulder at her with raised eyebrows, and it was enough of an answer. Choking on a sob, Christine went to work unbuttoning the back of the elaborate gown, and finally succeeded in freeing it from the mannequin. She threw one last pleading glance at me, but I turned my head away in a blunt refusal to be swayed by her childish pouting.

Only after she disappeared through the red velvet curtain did I collapse against the wall, sinking to the floor as if weighted by an anchor. Tears leaked from my drooping eyelid, stinging the inflamed skin of my right cheek.

_I didn't want it to be this way, _I thought miserably. _Christ, anything but this! She was supposed to be radiant and smiling on our wedding day. I'd do anything… anything… _

But I cut off the train of thought quickly. No use dwelling on the impossible. The hope that she might have chosen me of her own accord was dead and buried. I told myself repeatedly that I was doing what was best for Christine— saving her from a wretched life as the Vicomte's wife, where she would undoubtedly be the laughingstock of the Parisian aristocracy. For all his valiance and charming ideals of romance, I doubted very much that the Vicomte understood what he was getting himself into, either. He and Christine would be shunned, gossiped about, laughed at. I knew the elite swine far too well, unfortunately; my mother had been their princess before _I_ was born— an unforgivable blemish on her perfect name. I could picture no worse fate for my beloved, having lived it every day of my childhood.

I could protect her down here, where she would be loved and well cared for. We would thrive on music, living and breathing it until the day we departed this world. Despite what she believed now, she would be happy— much happier than if she chose the life of a despised vicomtess. For now, I needed to remain steadfast and strong, even in the face of her misery. After our vows were exchanged, I would make it up to her in any way she asked.

Sighing again, I climbed wearily to my feet and strode over to my cluttered workbench. Tucked securely in the luxurious velvet folds of my Red Death cape was the dazzling engagement ring I had plucked from her neck at the Bal Masque. I lifted it reverently and stood there for several long minutes, studying the diamonds in the flickering candlelight.

The sound of Christine's bare feet padding on stone snapped me from my trance. I looked up into her clear, bright eyes, and saw a much stronger young woman than the one who had disappeared through the curtain a few moments ago. There was anger brewing in those dark orbs, but I was slightly heartened to see that there was no trace of malice.

_Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood?_ She sang disdainfully.

It appeared we had reversed roles; now it was she who interrogated ruthlessly while I could do nothing but stare at her blankly.

_Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?_

A humorless smile lifted the corner of my lip as I continued to stare at her, resplendent in the wedding gown I had designed for her specifically. We had been thinking along the same lines, although her question was tainted by fear, while mine was sodden with despondency. As in the tunnel below the stage, I would not take Christine without her consent… and I was nearly positive it would not be given me. Tonight, our wedding night, would most likely be spent in tears on opposite sides of the lair.

Suppressing a sigh, I answered honestly. Despite the plethora of opportunities the Parisian whorehouses had to offer, I had never been with a woman. I did not have the heart to inflict myself— a gruesome monster— on a desperately impoverished girl, simply because I had the money to do so.

_That fate which condemns me to wallow in blood_

_Has also denied me the joys of the flesh_

Almost subconsciously, I reached up to touch her hair. Fear crept into Christine's eyes at the gentle gesture— it was as if she preferred my fury to tenderness. She turned away defiantly, and in doing so unwittingly struck an excruciating chord buried deep within me.

I squeezed my eyes shut on tears, trying to expel the image of my mother. She and Christine had a certain resemblance that I had never noted before. They were both strikingly beautiful, of course, with similar bone structures about the nose and cheeks, and full heads of rich curls. But it was not a particular physical trait which linked them now… rather an expression. When I was only a small boy, awoken by a nightmare or some such thing, and I would seek my mother's embrace, that exact same look of immature revulsion would cross her face. By the age of two I had come to vividly recognize that expression, and the fact that when it twisted my mother's elegant features, I had done something terribly wrong.

Monsters were not supposed to touch beauty.

I recoiled, my hand falling limply at my side. As infuriated and dejected by her betrayal as I was, I didn't doubt for a moment that Christine's precious heart would have broken had she known the symbolism of that single, childish gesture. Trying to convey a diluted fraction of it, I continued to sing quietly in an all-too-familiar tune.

_This face the infection which poisons our love_

_This face which earned a mother's fear and loathing_

_A mask my first, unfeeling scrap of clothing_

Christine's shoulders slumped with guilt, just as I had expected, but her shame only added to the burning pressure in my chest. What good would her remorse do me now? She had betrayed me, just as every other person in my life had done. Let her be sorry for it— she certainly deserved to suffer. Now that she had acknowledged her sin, let her face the consequences of it. Spurred on by a brief explosion of temper, I lifted the veil from the mannequin's head and slammed it down on her halo of chestnut curls.

_Pity comes too late,_

_Turn around and face your fate!_

_An eternity of _this_ before your eyes_

She looked up at me with her large wounded doe eyes, and as quickly as my temper had sprung forward, it receded submissively. For an endless moment we stood facing one another, searching the other's eyes. Then suddenly Christine lowered her gaze sadly, reaching up to take the veil from her head. I could do nothing but watch silently as she moved over to the nearest mirror and removed the dust cover, revealing the reflection of the two of us. If I had needed any more persuasion of the contrast between the two of us, there it was, staring back at me with two pairs of reddened, tear-filled eyes: a grotesquely deformed demon and his wide-eyed, cherubic prey.

But the onslaught of disgust and rejection that I had been anticipating never came. Instead, Christine's voice rang out serenely, edged with regret and disappointment.

_This haunted face holds no horror for me now_

I looked up at her, surprised, like a child awaiting a parent's grim punishment and instead receiving unexpected praise. But as I met her eyes, they hardened with anger, and her voice went cold as she delivered the staggering, fatal blow:

_It's in your soul that the true distortion lies_

I had not been prepared for the severity of that particular wound. Unable to process or tend to it, I tried desperately to bury it deep down with the others. Rage bubbled up instantly in the pit of my stomach, churning and scorching to get free.

The Vicomte could not have picked better timing to slosh and stagger his way up to the portcullis. My head snapped to attention at the sound of disturbed water, my pupils dilating like a cat's upon laying eyes on its prey.

A malicious smirk stretched across my face as a devious, masterful plan began to formulate in my mind.

_No mercy, no hesitation… it is time to bring this war to an end!_

**_A/N: Yes, I know, another cliffie. –hides- I can't decide whether to do the rest of "Down Once More" in one long chapter, or do it in two shorter ones. What do you guys think? Keep in mind, there will be an epilogue too. :) _**


	43. It's Over Now

_**A/N: -sighs- I have never been more emotionally drained by a chapter. It was difficult enough watching this scene in the movie, but getting under Erik's skin during this part is just excruciating. Sorry it took so long to post, but can you blame me for putting it off for a little bit? On the upside, if you don't love him yet— or at least appreciate the pain he went through in order to secure the happiness of the woman he loved— I hope this chapter will bring to light both the best and the worst of Erik's character. I did my best!**_

_**A note: As this is done from Erik's point of view, a lot of times he's in denial about how he's actually feeling (or the fact that he's CRYING, the poor baby), but I think you guys will be able to figure out what's REALLY going on. ;)**_

Any shred of conscience or rationale that might have dared to speak up was smothered and effectively silenced from that point on. It was almost too easy to succumb to violence and raw cynicism, allowing the smoldering ashes of my temper to flare to life in a brilliant, searing crescendo. Before an audience of hundreds Christine had sent me plummeting into the core of Hell. She had made her choice; now it was my move.

And I was not taking any more chances.

My lips snagged halfway between a smirk and a sneer as I caught sight of the breathless Vicomte, clinging to the grate of the portcullis, staring helplessly at Christine.

_Wait! I think, my dear, we have a guest! _

A horrified gasp escaped her as she took delayed notice of the boy, drenched in sewer water and sweat and his own blood. My smirk only stretched into a grin as I strode casually down to the shore, Christine fast on my heels.

"Sir…"

"Raoul!" she cried, running towards him. At the water's edge she suddenly halted, as if an invisible barrier separated them. Unwittingly she raised one of her pale hands toward him, her slender fingers extended as if to breach the gap between them.

Satisfied that she would go no further, I continued to talk to the boy as if he were an old family friend who had paid me a surprise visit at teatime.

_This is, indeed, an unparalleled delight! _

_I had rather hoped that you would come! _

_And now my wish comes true;_

_You have truly made my night! _

To complete the utter mockery of the situation, I came up behind his fiancée and nonchalantly wrapped an arm about her waist, as if it were the most natural gesture in the world. When Christine began to writhe and attempt to wrench away from my grasp I only dug my fingers into her waist, desperate to maintain the image of effortless control.

"Let me go!" she begged quietly.

Suppressing a sigh, I released her, maintaining an arrogant, jaded expression to make up for the momentary lapse in my façade. Fortunately, the ignorant little Vicomte chose that moment to belt a pathetic command while he stood helpless behind metal bars.

_Free her! Do what you like, only free her!_

_Have you no pity?_

It was all I could do to keep from laughing outright. Evidently it hadn't occurred to him that "doing what I liked" involved keeping Christine at my side for the rest of our lives. At the moment, it was the _only_ thing that mattered to me. However, I didn't want to completely shatter his pride just yet. Actually, his plea was almost… _endearing_. Almost shaking from the effort of restraining sardonic laughter, I raised an eyebrow in amusement and tilted my head like a spaniel, as if studying a strange creature beneath a microscope.

_Your lover makes a passionate plea! _I noted to Christine, every word dripping with sarcasm.

My chest swelled with pride as her cheeks colored, and she mumbled urgently to him, _Please, Raoul, it's useless…_

Evidently she knew _nothing_ of the Vicomte's character. Half-amused and half-irritated by this pointless show of idiocy, I looked from Christine to the boy, waiting for someone to say something intelligent instead of these mindless, fruitless declarations of puppy love and delusions of grandeur. I had already suffered through enough of this on the rooftop to last me two lifetimes.

_I love her! Does that mean nothing? I love her!_

Irritation won out. Curling my fingers into fists, I turned my back to the sickening display in disgust. I trembled with rage at hearing those words from his lips; how **_dare_** he pretend to know the depths, the heartache, the blissful torment of love? What had he ever done for Christine? What had he sacrificed for her happiness? Damn it all, he had done _nothing_ to deserve her, nothing! And yet I still played the role of the villain.

_Show some compassion!_

I snapped then, wheeling about to face him. Teeth bared like a cornered animal, I roared the horrible truth that had burdened my soul for decades without an appropriate outlet:

_THE WORLD SHOWED NO COMPASSION TO ME!_

Christine jolted backwards, taken by surprise by the sudden break in my composure. Her hand flew to the curve of her heaving breast as if the gesture could calm the pounding heart beneath it.

_Christine, Christine! Let me see her!_

"Erik, please!" she hissed under her breath, though I could barely hear her beneath the whine that was the spoiled little Vicomte's voice.

Fortunately, that brief clip of my beloved's voice was enough to drag me back into the confines of pretended sanity. I took a deep breath and unclenched my fists, settling my aching fingers instead on the release valve to the portcullis. Amusing as it was to torment my arch enemy with the cushion of distance and cold metal separating us, I was done toying with my prey. Just a few more steps and he would finally realize the cost of his so-called _valiance_.

_Be my guest, sir!_

As I moved toward the Vicomte, slinking smoothly forward like a cat closing in on its prey, I made sure to press down with my thumb on the end of the lever before letting go. Praying that the ten second time-release on the portcullis wouldn't fail me now, I took my precious time, counting silently in my head as I walked.

_Monsieur, I bid you welcome_

_Did you think that I would harm her?_

My honey-coated words masked deadly poison, just as my smile masked a tortured soul lusting for blood, love, or both. To my utter delight, the boy proved to be more of a coward than I had given him credit for; he only took a few steps inside my lair before stopping cold, intimidated by my closeness. His wary blue eyes flickered between me and Christine as he hesitated, trying to decide how best to move forward.

That fraction of a second of hesitation was all I needed to regain the upper hand. I bent down and snatched up the slimy length of rope hidden two feet underwater, tied to the bell that would alert me if anyone other than myself were attempting to cross the lake. My eyes, however, were glued to the portcullis. Right on cue, it began to lower again, trapping the Vicomte in the monster's lair…

_Why would I make her pay_

_For the sins which are YOURS?_

The Vicomte, in all his idiocy, turned his back to me for the briefest of moments at the sound of metal scraping against metal. It was all the time it took for the rope to hiss through the air and snag around his upper arms and torso. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard Christine's strangled gasp, as if I had tightened the rope around _her_, but it was drowned out by the roar of blood in my ears. A maniacal grin split my face as I barreled forward, slamming the boy against the lowered portcullis. The old wound on his arm where my sword had sliced neatly through flesh and muscle split open again, staining his shirt a dark crimson. Adrenaline coursed through my veins at the sight of his blood, and suddenly I became the raging, murderous beast everyone believed me to be. With brutal, harsh movements I bound his wrists to the grate, pulling the ropes so tightly that they dug into his flesh. His helpless cries of agony only fueled me on, for I knew his precious fiancée could hear them too…

_Order your fine horses now!_

_Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes!_

_Nothing can save you now—_

_Except, perhaps, Christine…_

I spun about to face her once I was sure the Vicomte was incapable of wriggling free. For the first time in my life, my heart did not break at the sight of her horrified, tear-stained face. Let her experience the bitter taste of betrayal! I realized now that she was no innocent child; she was capable of destroying souls, as she had so _accurately_ displayed only a few minutes prior. Now she would face the full consequences of her rash decision!

_Start a new life with me!_

_Buy his freedom with your love!_

_Refuse me and you send your lover to his death!_

_This is the choice;_

_THIS IS THE POINT OF NO RETURN!_

I told myself that the only reason my voice wavered was because my vocal chords were unused to raucous screaming. Certainly it had nothing to do with the onslaught of tears squeezing the back of my throat. After all, I didn't _care_ that Christine stood trembling before me, incredulity and heartbreak shining from her beautiful brown eyes.

_The tears I might have shed for your dark fate_

_Grow cold and turn to tears of HATE!_

I squeezed my eyes shut in denial. I didn't care. I—didn't—care. She could hate me. _I didn't care._ Why should she be different? God, couldn't she see? I didn't …

A sob hitched in my chest, but I disguised it as a growl as I brushed past her, grabbing the Punjab lasso from the back of a chair.

_You're weak! _my mind screamed. _One teary glance and you bend to her every whim? The bloody Vicomte has more nerve than you! Get a grip! Don't let her win. You **cannot** let her break you!_

For once, I listened to it. Squaring my shoulders, I coiled the rope around my forearm and marched determinedly over to Christine. Though the Vicomte was still attempting to serenade her (I cursed under my breath for not having thought to gag him), she was focused entirely on me, her small hands balled at her sides. I half expected her to stamp her foot at me like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

_Christine, forgive me, please forgive me!_

_I did it all for you and all for nothing!_

She interrupted the Vicomte mid-verse, acting as if he had disappeared from the situation entirely. Her tone took me by surprise; the words even more so…

_Farewell my fallen idol and false friend!_

_We had such hopes and now those hopes are shattered!_

Had I not been quaking with half-feigned rage, I might have smirked triumphantly; this was exactly what I wanted. The Vicomte was merely bait; I didn't want him to be a contributing force to the _opposite _side of the argument. Just for imagery's sake, I wanted him to writhe and moan in pain, perhaps shoot Christine a pleading glance. All of this was for show, really. I had no intention of killing the boy, much as I would have enjoyed it. It wouldn't be necessary. A few bruising blows to his handsome face, perhaps a dash of blood here and there, and Christine would surrender. My bride-to-be's greatest asset and fatal flaw would be her compassion. I had known upon plummeting through the trap door that someone would follow us down to my lair; but whether it had been Madame Giry, little Meg, Raoul, or a stagehand, I knew Christine would sooner devote the rest of her life to me than allow an ounce of pain to be inflicted on another person on her behalf.

She was a fool.

The petty, angry words she spat at me had very little effect on my resolve; I simply held the Punjab up at her eye level for clear inspection before biting out a dismissive response.

_Too late for turning back_

_Too late for prayers and useless pity!_

I then promptly turned to finish this little power struggle. We had been battling with words and music for months now, and nothing beneficial had come to it. Crass as it was, brute force seemed to be the last, and the most effective, alternative.

Of all the people alive, I better than any understood the power a well-dealt blow could exercise over a human being. But even worse was strangulation… feeling every last nerve in one's body go numb from oxygen loss before falling into darkness. There was something utterly humiliating— dehumanizing, almost— about being strangled to death.

It seemed a rather appropriate punishment for my dear friend the Vicomte, even if I revoked it for Christine's sake. An eye for an eye…

But at the moment I was much more interested in cutting out the boy's _tongue_. Even in the face of death, he continued that infernal whining!

_Say you love him and my life is over!_

It took a great deal of restraint not to dislocate his jaw. Instead I slid the noose around his neck and slipped the end of the rope through a grate about a meter above his head. I refrained from cutting off his airway only because… my hands were wet, and they slipped on the rope. At least, that was the lie I told myself as I burned under Christine's pleading gaze.

_Past all hope of cries for help,_

_No point in fighting!_

_For either way you choose, you cannot win!_

The Vicomte's voice rose to match mine in both volume and ardor:

_For either way you choose, he has to win!_

I was panting hard, a sheen of sweat glistening on my forehead and trickling into my eyes and down my cheeks; I certainly wasn't _crying_… there was nothing to cry about… the boy himself had reiterated my very point! I had won! He had already admitted defeat. There was nothing left for Christine to do but give in.

Trying desperately to gain control over my wavering voice (strained vocal chords, I still insisted!), I stepped toward Christine, holding the end of the rope just tight enough to tilt the Vicomte's head up without cutting off his air supply.

_So do you end your days with me?_

_Or do you send him to his GRAVE?_

I gave a harsh tug on the rope, grinning maniacally when the boy gagged and sputtered. When he continued with his exasperating protestations with the very little breathing room I allowed him, I tottered on the border of self-control, half-wanting to snap his neck on the spot and be done with it.

_Why make her lie to you to save me?_

In a simple answer, I tugged and shut him up. Hard.

_Past the point of no return, the final threshold!_

_His life is now the prize which you must earn!_

When he was actually silent for a moment, allowing Christine to address me without interruption, I had to glance over my shoulder to make sure he was still alive. Just to be certain I didn't accidentally kill my hostage before the proper time, I gave him a little bit of slack, praying that he would hold his tongue. My patience had run out.

_Angel of Music, who deserves this?_

_Why do you curse mercy?_

Much as I tried to deny it— tried to block out her heartbroken voice— the memories associated with that particular tune began to unravel the seams at the edges of my soul.

I hardly heard the boy when he sang out bravely,

_For pity's sake, Christine, say no!_

_Don't throw your life away for my sake!_

… _I fought so hard to free you!_

This time I managed to ignore him; my undivided attention was focused on Christine, and she on me. Our gazes locked, speaking more than words— more than even music— could ever communicate. Suddenly my voice softened of its own accord, transitioning from that of a fuming monster to the familiar tone of her Angel of Music.

_You've passed the point of no return…_

Christine's voice, too, lowered to little more than a melancholic whisper as a stream of tears trickled down her porcelain cheek.

_Angel of Music… you deceived me._

"I gave you my mind blindly," she breathed, every syllable drenched with incredulity and hurt.

Her words were a knife through my chest, ripping mercilessly at the façade I had fought so hard to maintain. It was one thing to acknowledge for myself what I had been doing all these years— _lying to her, molding her to fit MY expectations, using her talent as an outlet to the world I had never been able to reach_— but to hear the accusation from Christine's trembling lips was…

_Irrelevant! _My mind snapped doggedly, coming to the rescue of my waning resolve. _Don't you dare fall for this! Backbone, man!_ _You're so very close! Stand firm now. Make it up to her later. If you falter now, the boy wins! _

I clutched to those words for dear life, and somehow managed to growl a deadly command at her even as my heart swelled with agony.

"You try my patience. Make—your—choice." Just for emphasis, I gave another violent tug on the rope, producing another strangled choke from the Vicomte. I took no pleasure from it, as I had before. Christine's words had reopened wounds I did not realize I'd had, and now my energy, my lifeblood, seemed to be slowly draining from me, leaving me cold, empty, and numb. I didn't want to kill that boy. I didn't want to force Christine into my arms with blackmail or a bribe.

I wanted to be loved.

Despite my best efforts, that desperation, that insuppressible human desire fueled by years of loneliness, must have shone in my eyes. And quite suddenly, the anger dissolved from Christine's eyes, replaced by a staggering combination of emotions so potent that words could never describe it. A fresh wave of tears escaped from those bottomless brown eyes as she stared deeply into mine, drawing in shuddering breaths. It seemed an eternity that we stood there, simply staring into the bared soul of the other. But all too soon the moment was broken as she shifted her gaze over to Raoul, and an entirely new emotion glazed her eyes.

Curiosity overpowered my characteristic flare of temper when Christine's lips formed the three words I had waited a lifetime to hear: "I love you." Why, then, did she look as if she were about to stab him in the back? Guilt was etched into every line of her beautiful face, but as she returned her gaze to me, it simply meshed with the countless other emotions chasing themselves through her eyes.

Years upon years of rejection had taught me never to hope; it only made the fall twice as painful. But when Christine began to walk toward me, straight into the icy, obscure water she feared, I could not seem to extinguish the tiny spark of optimism that flared to life within me.

_Pitiful creature of darkness,_

_What kind of life have you known?_

I could do nothing but stare incredulously as she drew ever-closer, lost in the intoxicating beauty of her voice. The rest of the lair, including the silent Vicomte, seemed fade from existence as Christine came within reach. I could almost feel the warmth of her skin cutting through the wall of ice that had formed around my heart.

_God, give me courage to show you_

_You are not alone!_

A dazzling reflection of light drew my eyes down to her hands just as she slipped the ring on her wedding finger. I hardly had time to draw in a tremulous gasp before her fingers wrapped around the back of my neck, gently pulling my face down to hers. My mouth reacted instinctively to the probing of her lips long before my mind could even begin to process the shock of my first kiss. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once— I was completely vulnerable, helpless and limp in her arms. I had no idea what I was doing, and the decision seemed to be made for me to shyly follow my angel's lead. When Christine's sweet, wet little tongue slid over the seam of my closed lips, I opened them to her impulsively. God, she tasted of Heaven. I groaned softly against her mouth, and she pressed herself closer to me, the fingers of her right hand tangling in my hair as she ran the palm of her left over the twisted flesh of my cheek. Salty tears mingled into the kiss— whether mine or hers we would never know. I wanted to reach up and wipe them away from her soft cheeks, but my arms were like lead, dangling helplessly at my sides. Just as I began to regain some feeling and register the fact that Christine was kissing me, her lips slowed and gradually stopped, and she pulled away gently.

She smiled at me.

It was as if a dam broke, releasing a reservoir of tears. I doubled over, choked gasps somewhere between laughter and sobs escaping my swollen lips. My sweet Christine's hand took hold of my arm, holding me up. Her eyes tried to search mine, but my vision was so blurred with tears that I could hardly see her.

But I could taste her still, and smell the natural perfume that was her skin— that delicious combination of rosebuds, sunshine and soap— clinging to the fabric of my shirt.

Christine had kissed me… not a pity kiss, not a bribe… but a true, deep kiss. She had never been able to lie to me. There was no trace of a lie in the way her lips had molded gently against mine. For a moment I was convinced I had imagined the whole thing. Angels did not kiss Demons…

_Monsters were not supposed to touch beauty…_

Suddenly the world reappeared around us. The candles seemed to burn hotter than ever before, and the stone gargoyles looked on us with contempt. The water was like ice; even through my tears I could see the goose bumps running the length of Christine's arms. My angel was cold.

Slowly, ever so slowly, my gaze shifted to the limp figure bound to the portcullis. His head hung forward, tears of despair and disbelief dripping from his handsome cheekbones. In that moment, bathed in the iridescent light dancing up from the water, he almost looked like Christ, bravely facing death and betrayal in order to save the one he loved…

_Mon Dieu, _my conscience whispered incredulously, _You truly _are_ a monster._

And then I knew. The past ten years had been in vain, for I could not keep an Angel of Light bound in Hell. Despite everything I had tried to convince myself over these past few weeks, she could never be happy with me in this cold, dark dungeon… Christine was a creature of sunshine and song. And she was no longer a child in need of the protection of a fantasy creature… a fond bedtime story invented by her father. She was a woman now— a strong, courageous, talented, impossibly beautiful woman.

The Vicomte did not deserve her… but then, neither did I. No man did. But his wealth would afford her a life of luxury and splendor, and he would give her beautiful children to raise to be the beloved stars of society. She would be happy.

For the first time in my life, I gave in. For the longest time I had convinced myself that the only thing that mattered was earning Christine's love. Now I knew better… how could there be anything more important than the happiness of my brilliant young student— the only friend I'd ever had? Suddenly I knew I would give anything… my very life, if necessary… just to see a radiant smile light her face.

So be it.

Somewhere above us, the mob's trampling feet and cries for blood sped up my mind's resolution. They needed to leave, quickly, _now_, before the mob arrived. Christine had witnessed enough death and destruction for one night.

_Track down this murderer  
He must be found!  
Hunt out this animal,   
Who runs to ground!_

Who is this monster,  
This murdering beast?  
Revenge for Piangi!  
Revenge for Buquet!   
This creature must never go free...

Sobs knifed through my chest as I staggered away from her, doubled over in pain. With one hand I clutched to the hideous deformity that had successfully ruined my life, and with the other I gestured to her precious Vicomte.

"Take her," I demanded fiercely, "Forget me. Forget all of this! Leave me alone. Forget all you've seen! Go now— don't let them find you!"

For a brief moment Christine stood uncertainly between us, before the mob's eerie chanting finally seemed to make the decision for her.

_Too long he's preyed on us,  
But now we know  
The Phantom of the Opera is there,  
Deep down below…_

I stumbled onto shore, just barely staying on my feet. Through the gaps in my fingers and the tears in my eyes, I watched as Christine lurched over to her fiancé, her little fingers working furiously to free him from the strangling ropes. Habitually I gravitated toward her room, tripping on the steps as I sang out raucously,

_Take the boat, swear to me, never to tell_

_The secret you know of the _Angel_ in Hell_

The irony was just too much. A heart-wrenching sob caught in my throat as I screamed desperately at the woman I loved. The sight of her clinging to the recently-freed Vicomte was almost enough to shake my resolve. She needed to leave… _now_… before I changed my mind…

_GO NOW, GO NOW AND LEAVE ME!_

And without looking back to make sure she obeyed, I rounded the stone corner and disappeared from view. Only once I was positive she couldn't see me did I collapse, beating my fist on the stone floor until it was scraped raw, while digging the fingernails of my right hand into my deformed flesh, wanting nothing more than to just scrape it all away. If I bled to death, here on the cold ground five stories beneath the opera house, who would ever know or care? It wasn't as if Christine would be waiting up every night for her Angel of Music to come and sing to her. Aside from the occasional nightmare, I was sure she would never think of me again in her life.

The mob was drawing closer. Weary, heartbroken, and hopeless, I wished them a quick journey through this damned labyrinth. Perhaps they would be merciful and grant me a speedy death…

Curling up in a ball, I succumbed to another onslaught of excruciating sobs. My lungs were tired of weeping, but I couldn't help myself. Just for good measure, I slammed my fist into the ground once more. I was startled when, a few feet away, the little monkey music box I had fashioned as a boy began to play a brief snippet of a familiar tune before going silent.

Sniffling miserably, I pushed myself up to my hands and knees with great effort and crawled over to the music box. It seemed an eternity ago that I had set it at Christine's bedside on the first night I had brought her to my lair. My fingers shook as I clamped them weakly on the little golden key and wound it three times.

A gentle tinkling noise filled the air of that godforsaken, desolate little room. I closed my sore eyes, allowing music to seep into my soul as nothing else could. As I had done countless times as a small boy, lonely and cheerless in this dark, cold palace, I began to sing quietly to the familiar tune.

_Masquerade, paper faces on parade,_

_Masquerade…_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you_

At first I was sure I was imagining Christine's scent drifting in from the doorway, but when I opened my eyes and looked for myself, my heart stopped in my chest.

She had never looked more angelic than she did in that minute, with tears standing like diamonds in her eyes, her mussed curls cascading like a waterfall down her shoulders, her lips still red from our kiss, her porcelain cheeks stained a light pink. In her alabaster hands she held the wedding ring I had presented to her only a few minutes ago, though now it seemed years.

I don't know why, after all the pain it had earned me, I still dared to hope.

An oppressive silence hung over the two of us for a few seconds, demanding to be broken. Swallowing my tears, I sang to her the only thing left after everything else had been said and done:

_Christine, I love you._

My voice broke over every word, but somehow I managed to get it out. The tears that had stood dormant in Christine's eyes suddenly spilled down her cheeks, and above all the emotions held captive in those honey-brown orbs, remorse reigned supreme. I was foolish enough to believe that she had changed her mind… that her drowning sadness was for the pain she had caused me.

When her hands brushed mine, reaching down to pry open my fingers, a part of me screamed to grab her, hold her tight, and never let go. Impulsively my free hand clutched hers as she placed the glistening wedding ring in my palm. Slowly, hesitantly, she walked away, her smooth, soft hand slipping from my palm. I did not cry after her, did not make a move to stop her… simply sat there, still and silent as a statue, watching the retreating back of the love of my life, my muse, and my best friend.

Minutes of incredulous silence ticked by before I finally closed my fingers over the precious gem and climbed to my feet, moving over to the opening in the stone room as if in a trance. Perhaps I was hallucinating, but I could have sworn I heard the couple singing quietly as the boy rowed the gondola toward the Rue Scribe exit… and safety.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime,_

_Say the word and I will follow you,_

_Share each day with me, each night, each morning…_

God, why did she have to turn and look at me? Meters and meters away, I could see the apology in her eyes. It would have been so much easier to hate her for what she had done… to allow the wound of her betrayal to fester and turn my heart into little more than a rotted, cold, hard piece of flesh. But looking into those beloved brown eyes— the same wounded eyes of a little girl, alone in a chapel, praying for an angel— I could do nothing but love her. Even though my heart seared from the effort, I had to send my precious student off with my blessing…

_You alone can make my song take flight, _I sang to her quietly, knowing the water and stone would carry my whispered voice. Her features crumpled with sobs, and I watched helplessly as she turned away, burying her face in the Vicomte's arm. Only once the gondola turned the corner did I allow rage and despair to consume my senses. I grabbed the nearest solid item— a silver candlestick— and lurched toward the mirrors that had entertained me as a child and reminded me of my inferiority as an adult. Desperate to shatter the reflection of a brokenhearted monster, I reared the candlestick high over my head, and with an agonized scream, brought it crashing into the glass.

_It's over now, the music of the night! _

Again and again I smashed the candlestick into the mirrors surrounding me, but there were so many… reminders of my failure, of my loss. Finally I reached the last mirror— a secret passage, fashioned as a last-resort escape route. Sweeping the dust cover away, I stared at my hideous reflection for a prolonged moment before purposely dashing it to fragmented slivers. Three strikes were all it took to shatter the glass completely, baring a long, damp tunnel. For a moment I stood on the threshold, panting heavily, with only three options before me: to stay and be slaughtered by the murderous mob; to escape to safety through the tunnel before me; or…

My eyes lingered for a long moment on a piece of sharp, broken glass. It would easily cut through the flesh of my throat, opening a main artery that would allow me to bleed to

death in only a matter of seconds.

A distant splashing and triumphant voices alerted me to the fact that the mob had found the underground lake. It would only be a matter of time before they wandered their way into my lair.

With a broken sigh, and one last glance at the alcove that had become my sanctuary and my home, I dropped the candlestick with a reverberating thud. Shattered glass crunched under my boots as I stepped through the mirror, pulling the dust cover down to hide the exit.

Swallowed in darkness, I trudged on.

_**A/N: -sighs again- Well, THAT was a real cheerer-upper, wasn't it? Gah, my heart hurts. I think I need to go read some E/C fluff… we're talking cotton balls and bunny rabbits and goose-down pillows here.**_

_**So. Now I have to SHAMELESSLY plug for my E/C story, "Evergreen," which could very well be a continuation of this story if you so choose it to be (that wasn't its original intention, mind you, but it works). If you're lusting for a good dose of E/C right about now, I'd LOVE to see my readers from this story carry over. A lot of you already have, and I thank you for your loyalty. –muah-**_

_**And please, please, PRETTY PLEASE review for me? If you've been a long-time reader just waiting for the appropriate opportunity to review, TADAA! Here it is! … Or, you know, the epilogue works too… OR BOTH! Yay! I like that idea. :D**_

_**The epilogue will be up soon, my loves. Remember, the movie doesn't end with Erik smashing the mirror into pieces.**_


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